


One Caress

by fuck_me_barnes



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Adorkable, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety, Baking, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Steve Rogers, Chicago (City), Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Food Porn, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Idiots in Love, JFC Just Kiss Already, M/M, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Oh No They're Hot, Past Child Abuse, Phobias, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Platonic Cuddling, Recipes, Reference To Past Injury, References to Illness, Service Dogs, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn, Slow Sex, Stress Baking, Swing Dancing, Top Bucky Barnes, Touch Aversion, Touch-Starved, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-03-11 16:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuck_me_barnes/pseuds/fuck_me_barnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's rarely been touched in a way that didn't equate to some kind of hurt. The cold metal of a stethoscope against his frail chest or the sting of a needle drawing yet another blood sample, when he was a sickly child. The bone-shattering punches thrown by the neighborhood bullies on the playground, or by his own father at home, drunk and wild. His mother, weak and clutching at him as she grew more incoherent with the drugs as the cancer ate away at her insides. Touch was something he shied away from, something he told himself he just didn't want. </p><p>Except...he <i>did</i>. He just didn't know <i>how</i>.</p><p>Until he finds a flyer for a local "affection and intimacy services" program. </p><p>In which Steve learns how to become comfortable with touch, and there is one very good dog, and a slow-burn romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slashtext](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashtext/gifts).



He sits, staring at the slip of paper in his hand.

"Cuddle Commandos" was printed in black ink, block text like a rubber stamp, over a camouflage background. It purported to be "a non-profit, therapeutic organization promising one-on-one affection services", promising "non-sexual touch and intimacy for the residents of the greater Chicagoland area." According to the flyer, it employed only veterans who had passed a full criminal background check and psychological screening. All proceeds generated, it said, went to local charities for disabled veterans, including the training and care of service dogs.

Well. If it didn't work, at least the couple of bucks that he threw at it was for a good cause, he told himself. What's the worst that could happen? (He immediately imagines sex murders, robbery, humiliation, and then shoves those thoughts back down the deep and terrible well from whence they came.)

Drawing a deep breath, Steve Rogers screws up his courage, picks up his phone, and begins to dial. 

 

* * *

 

Steve's rarely been touched in a way that didn't equate to some kind of hurt. The cold metal of a stethoscope against his frail chest or the sting of a needle drawing yet another blood sample, when he was a sickly child. The bone-shattering punches thrown by the neighborhood bullies on the playground, or by his own father at home, drunk and wild. His mother, weak and clutching at him as she grew more incoherent with the drugs as the cancer ate away at her insides. Touch was something he shied away from, something he told himself he just didn't want. 

Except...he did. He just didn't know _how_. How did people do it? Just... _hold hands_ like that, easy as breathing, or curl next to someone on a couch? Hug them hello, hug them goodbye, oblivious to all that _implied_? The incredible amount of trust it took just to allow someone to sling an arm around his shoulders, or...more than that?

He knew there was something deeply wrong with him, and he had no idea how to begin to fix it. Until he saw the stupid flyer, and allowed himself to hope. 

 

* * *

 

The phone rings three times, and just as he's thinking he should hang up, a woman answers.

"Cuddle Commandos, Natasha speaking." Her voice is deep, but warm. 

"Uh. Hi. I, uh. I saw your, your...flyer?" Steve winces at the sound of his own voice, gone a little pitchy in his nervousness. "Is this. I don't mean to be rude, but, I mean is this...for  _real_?"

She laughs, a low friendly chuckle. "I know. We get that question a lot. _Yes_ , this is for real."

Steve grabs a pencil from the cup on the desk, and starts doodling on the back of the flyer. Sketching, even idly, always calms his nerves, gives him something to focus on that isn't his own awkwardness. "So...how does this work, exactly?"

"We're a professional service providing intimacy and affection for people who might just, as simple as it sounds, need a hug, or to be cuddled for a little while. We're _not_ an escort service. They come to you, so that all affection services take place in a familiar, comfortable environment. And you don't need to worry, all our professional cuddlers are thoroughly pre-screened and vetted. We also are proud to have a therapy dog on staff, in the event that human contact isn't desired."

"Sometimes, you just need to hug a dog," Steve posits dryly. The idea, however, had its appeal. He never had any pets as a kid, between his horrible asthma and allergies, and his family's finances being so tight. 

"Exactly! Don't laugh. Dogs are kind of the best. They're good listeners, very understanding. And they don't judge. Plus, they're soft. Petting dogs is good tactile sensation for grounding, if you have anxiety." She sounds like someone who's been through it before, he notices. 

"Well. That's reasonable. So." He clears his throat. "What are the...rates like?" _God, I can't believe I'm asking this._ He looks down at what he's been doodling and it's a little cartoon of himself, surrounded by dust bunnies and tumbleweeds. 

"Well, for an hour of cuddling, it's $40. For an evening, it's $125. If you want an overnight stay - and again, this is _strictly non-sexual contact_  - it's $300." She pauses, and he can hear the shuffle of papers on the other end of the line. "The therapy dog, now, _he_ is $25 an hour. He doesn't do overnights."

This gets a dry huff of a laugh out of Steve. "Yeah, okay, that's fair."

"So. What can I set you up with?"

Steve takes a deep breath before replying. He tries to picture some stranger coming into his house, his _space_ , and touching him. His skin crawls. He looks over at the empty couch and thinks of all the times he's daydreamed about curling up with someone on it. Watching a movie, maybe. Listening to music. Just sitting in companionable silence, having someone run their fingers through his hair. In all those daydreams, though, the other person just doesn't have a face. It's no one he knows. He can't think of anyone he's trusted like that before. 

"Maybe I should just...start with the dog."

 

* * *

 

The following evening, at eight sharp, his doorbell rings. He'd spent the previous two hours in a state of nervous energy, alternating between frantically cleaning his house, for which he castigates himself internally ( _why are we cleaning for a dog? would the dog notice? would the dog care?_ ) and sitting at the couch staring at the wall, wringing his sweating palms.

 _It's not like it's a date. It's a dog_ , he reminds himself. Nevertheless, he opens the door slowly.

He didn't know what it was that he had expected, but not this. Never this. Not in a million years this. 

The guy standing at the door is drop-dead gorgeous. Blue eyes, medium-length dark brown hair, and just the right amount of five o'clock shadow that manages to make him look devastating rather than scruffy. He's wearing a red henley and a worn pair of fashionably ripped jeans, scuffed-looking combat boots, and an easy, warm smile.

Steve forgets how to speak. His mouth goes dry, his throat closes up. His lips move, but no words come out. 

"Hi. I'm Bucky. With the cuddling service? Eight o'clock appointment?" He furrows his brows, taking in Steve's stunned expression. "Do I have the right house?"

"I...I thought that was the dog's name," he stutters. "I didn't think that was a people name." _Oh my god. Rogers, you are the smoothest man alive. This is already going just SO well._  Maybe, if he were fortunate, the earth would crack beneath his feet and swallow him right then and there.

The man - Bucky - smiles even wider, exposing perfect white teeth, and laughs. "No, sorry to disappoint you. I'm just his handler. The dog's name is Lucky." Steve manages to look down, absolutely not in any way checking out Bucky's fit, muscular frame, and yes, he is holding a leash, which is attached to a dog. A very cute dog. A golden retriever, grinning up at him all dopey and loving, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. _The dog looks how I feel_ , Steve notes miserably. "So, I take it we're in the right place, then.  That means you must be...Steve, right?"

He realizes he's been so thrown by Bucky that he'd forgotten to introduce himself. "Uh. Yeah, 'm Steve," he mumbles inarticulately. He is relieved that Bucky doesn't try to stick his hand out or otherwise crowd him, as so many other well-meaning people do during introductions. He can force himself to give handshakes, things like that - god knows, he'd had to do it for work functions and parties - but he appreciates that Bucky's very deliberately _not_ putting him on the spot like that.

"Can we, um, come in?" Bucky asks gently. Steve realizes he's just been standing there staring at the dog for who knows how long, and he tears his gaze away. Natasha should have warned him that the dog was 1) not coming alone and 2) it was going to be accompanied by an incredibly hot dude.

"Uh. Yeah. Yes. Sorry. 'M just, this is a little," he scrubs the back of his neck with his hand awkwardly, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Bucky chuckles. "A little weird? Maybe. But we ain't gonna bite ya, pal. Promise. They're real strict about that at the agency." He flashes those teeth again in a grin and for a half second Steve _does_ imagine them sinking into his neck, his hipbone, the inside of his thighs. Steve shudders and he's not sure if it's over the idea of the physical contact or the imagery of _Bucky_ being the one to do it.

Oh, this was not even a _little_ bit fair.

He drops his gaze, suddenly unsure of where he should look. "Yeah, okay. C'mon in," he breathes.

"You're kinda standing in the doorway," Bucky points out kindly.

Right, moving. Moving out of the way would be a great place to start. _What in the hell am I doing, this is nuts._ He takes a deep breath and a step back, and welcomes Bucky and Lucky into his home.

 

* * *

 

He's twenty-seven, he's not _dead_.

Steve had been comfortable with his bisexuality for a long time, and he has what he considered a perfectly normal, healthy sex drive. He felt sexual attraction to people, had fantasies just like anybody else. Jerked off, just like anybody else. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was, of course, that he avoided any kind of physical contact, if he could help it. So he just...didn't date, much, because it was hard to explain to your dates that no, you didn't really want to hold hands in the movie theater, or kiss them goodnight, and no, of course it wasn't _them_ , they were perfectly attractive, it was just...that something was wrong with _you_ and you didn't want to touch like normal people did. That it took you longer to warm up to people enough to trust them, grant them permission to brush your skin with their fingers, to sit close enough for your thighs to touch, so that you allowed them to lean in and kiss you.

He hated having to explain it, because he wasn't very good at explaining it, and the dates would get confused and frustrated, and he'd feel ashamed and even more alienated than he did before. It was a mess.

 

* * *

 

Once they're inside, Steve has no idea what to do. He had not anticipated that the dog's handler would stay with the dog during the visit, for some reason. Which was ridiculous, no one was just going to drop a dog off at his apartment and just _leave_. So Bucky was going to...stay...here...with them. Okay. Sure. He could handle this. It wasn't like he was going to try to cuddle with him or anything. Suddenly, the possibility dawns on him, and he panics slightly.

"Uh. Are you supposed to...?" He gestures vaguely, flapping his arms.

Bucky smiles at him again, reassuringly. "Cuddle with you? Nah, pal, that ain't part of the package you requested. I'm not here to do anything with you that you aren't comfortable with."

"Oh." Steve's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed.

"I mean, I _am_ a trained and vetted cuddle volunteer with the Commandos, too. If you wanted to. But that'd be extra," he winks, and then grins and licks his lips. Steve's chest tightens at the sight of it, it's so incredibly alluring he is certain he is going to die.

"So, where do you want to do this, then? Living room, bedroom, right here? Where are you most comfortable?" Bucky asks, and Steve's so distracted that for a moment he's not sure what he's talking about. It takes a moment to process that he's talking about the dog visit.

Steve forces himself to take a deep breath. "Living room, I guess."

Lucky is soft and patient and warm and good. Steve spends the majority of their visit just petting him slowly as the dog sits on the couch at his side, his head in Steve's lap. Occasionally he will wag his tail lazily, thump-thump-thump against the couch.

Bucky sits across the room in an armchair, watching them comfortably. Ordinarily, that'd make Steve unnerved, but there's something about Bucky's laid-back demeanor that puts him at ease, and he doesn't mind it as much as he normally would. It occurs to Steve that Bucky is respecting his space, and he's immensely grateful for that.

"So, how long have you and your dog been doing this?" Steve asks about halfway through the session, mainly because he feels like he has to say something. And it's easier to do when he has something to do with his hands. Pet, pet, pet.

Bucky smiles and leans forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, his legs slightly spread. Steve quickly looks back at the dog, realizing he's been petting him a little harder than is strictly necessary. Bless him, Lucky doesn't complain or even seem to notice.

"Oh, he's not _my_ dog. Lucky belongs to my buddy Clint. We all work for the Commandos, though he mainly takes daytime shifts. But, since I didn't answer your question: I've been with the agency for about a year now, ever since Natasha started it up." He shrugs, with one shoulder.

"She seems nice," Steve offers.

Laughing, Bucky says, "Nice? _Nice_ ain't exactly the word I'd use to describe her, pal. But she _is_ a God damned amazing lady. I've known Natasha for years, since before we shipped out."

He scratches behind Lucky's ears. "We?" 

"Yeah, Clint and I." He sketches him a lazy salute with a smirk, two fingers to his forehead. "Sergeant James Barnes, 107th." Oh, right, the flyer _had_ said that they had all veterans on staff, Steve remembers belatedly. "They honorably discharged me about a year and a half back. Injuries sustained during combat."

"I'm sorry," Steve says quietly, not knowing what else to say. 

"Ah, it's all right. Shit happens, you know? Doesn't mean I can't still go out, live my life, train some therapy dogs, help people who need it. And it makes going through metal detectors in the airport way more exciting." He winks again. Steve has no idea how he does it, is so _easy_  about everything, despite all the pain he's been through.

"So Natasha started up the service? Where'd she get the idea?"

Bucky's lips press together briefly before he answers, and he leans back in the armchair, choosing his words carefully before he speaks. "Well, Nat's been through some stuff. I mean, haven't we all. But she just, I don't know, she said she always had trouble getting close to people. _Physically_ close, y'know, not to mention...emotionally. That didn't mean she doesn't _want_ it, just that it was hard for her. So she thought, maybe starting up something like this could really help people. Help us, too. We get jobs - I'm sure I don't even need to tell you how hard it is for vets to return to the workforce, and disabled vets to boot? Forget it, man." He huffs out a cynical little laugh.

"Anyways. Right now it's four of us humans, and Lucky here. He's pretty popular," he grins, and Lucky's head perks up, hearing his name. He lets out a short friendly bark and his tail starts to wag. "Lucky's blind in one eye. Clint found him on the side of the road not long after we got back home, looked like he got hit by a car."

Steve looks down at the dog, a wave of anger passing through him. What kind of a monster could do such a thing, leave a hurt animal on the side of the road like that? "Jesus," he whispers, patting his side protectively. Lucky makes a pleased little huffing noise and lies his head back down on Steve's lap, tail still going happily.

"Clint's got a soft spot for taking in strays - it's kind of a _thing_ for him - but when he does, he goes all in. Lucky pulled through, obviously, and he's been with us ever since. Whatever he was before, he's a certified therapy dog now. Perfect temperament for it." Bucky looks at the dog appreciatively. "He's only got two moods: sleeping, and loving on you."

"He's a _good_ dog," Steve says, and means it. In acknowledgement, Lucky wriggles onto his back, inviting Steve to give him a belly rub. Steve obliges, of course.

"Well, _mostly_ good. When he ain't stealing pizza out of the box off the counter," Bucky counters. Lucky whines at hearing the magic word, tail wagging even faster. "Oh, hell, I shouldn'ta said that. His favourite thing in the world is P-I-Z-Z-A," he stage-whispers confidentially, and Steve laughs. "He ain't stupid, I think at this point the damn dog even knows how to spell it."

Lucky whines again. "All right, all right, you're breakin' my heart. Three successful missions today, I believe that earns you a treat. Whaddya say, buddy?" Lucky bounds over to him, licking his face. 

"Missions?" Steve asks with a smile. 

"Yeah, that's what we call 'em." Bucky rolls his eyes a little, though it's clear he isn't at all bothered by it. "We had an elderly client in assisted living, and then a round at the children's hospital. And you. You were our last mission today." He looks at his phone. "Speaking of, I'm afraid our time is up." 

"Aw," Steve actually groans. This had been... _nice_ , actually. He felt calm, and relaxed, and happy. Bucky being easy on the eyes didn't hurt, either.

Bucky bends, and clips the leash back onto Lucky's collar before standing up to look at Steve. "Hey, pal, you just call us when you need us, okay? It's been swell." His eyes crinkle up at the corners a little when he smiles, an honest, genuine smile that makes his heart do a little flip.

Steve reaches for his wallet, pulls out two tens and a five. "You know what? I think I will," he grins in return, putting the money on top of the end table, and leans down to ruffle Lucky's head affectionately.

Wordlessly, Bucky picks it up, not making a show of the fact that Steve didn't hand it to him directly. "You know, Steve -" he starts, and then stops, frowning.

"Yeah, Buck?" he replies casually, patting the dog's flank before straightening up to look at him.

He regards him carefully for a few seconds, as if there's something he wants to say. "I, um, you know what, nevermind."

Looking at him quizzically, Steve asks, "What is it?"

"I was just gonna say. Maybe it ain't none of my business, but." Bucky bites his lip, and breaks eye contact for a second. "You look a lot happier. That's all." His mouth twitches up into a little smile again. He turns to leave, and before he closes the door behind him, he says over his shoulder, "You call us when you need us. I mean it."

He wants to tell Bucky, _I need you right now, please don't go, please stay_ , but he doesn't. Instead, Steve watches him and Lucky walk down the steps of his brownstone and away down the street, and finally, reluctantly, closes the door behind them.

 

* * *

 

Steve calls Natasha to book several appointments the very next day.

"So...let me make sure I'm understanding here. You want a regular schedule, is what you're saying?" she says carefully. 

"Yeah. Please."

"And you want it progressive. Increasing in time, correct?"

"Yep," he confirms, flipping the pages on his calendar where he's got the dates marked off.

"Preferred partner?" she asks.

 This throws Steve for a loop. "Pardon?"

"Do you have a preference? Or just whoever's available on the schedule?" Natasha clarifies.

Steve's heart skips a beat. "I, uh. Whoever you had here before, he was good," he stutters, trying to sound casual and failing completely. Like he didn't remember Bucky's name, or every detail of his gorgeous face. He looks down at the piece of scratch paper on his desk and looks at the sketch he's made of Bucky smiling, head tilted off to one side like he's laughing at something just out of frame.

"Mmm. James. Okay. I'm sure he'll be happy to work with you again," she confirms, and something about her tone is almost playful. "Great. Well, then, he and Lucky will see you next week, Thursday, at...eight pm. Sound good?"

"Sounds great," Steve says with a smile, and circles the date on his calendar.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Will Steve ever be comfortable enough to graduate from cuddling with Lucky to cuddling with Bucky? Will Lucky get more pizza? 
> 
> TUNE IN NEXT TIME (by subscribing for updates) AND SEE!
> 
> and, in the meantime, feel free to come find me on [tumblr](fuck-me-barnes.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

This time, when Thursday rolls around, Steve's a lot less nervous.

Well, at least, that's what he tells himself. The house is clean, his laundry's done, and he's even baked two loaves of his ma's award-winning apple bread, with the intent of giving one to Bucky. As a sort of tip, he tells himself. A thank-you. It's certainly not an enticement. Not in _any way_ did he believe Sarah Rogers' hackneyed old adage that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Nope. Not at all. 

Besides, someone like Bucky, who was so obviously physically comfortable with others, enough so to be a _professional cuddler for total strangers_ , was not going to be the least bit interested in someone as awkward and hesitant as Steve. It'd never work out, he reasons.

Honestly, he didn't even know if the guy was into other guys. And that's certainly not something you just go around _asking_ people, and it's not like anybody these days wore some kind of convenient _sign_ , anyways. Steve has practically no gaydar. Or...bi-dar? Whatever. Either way, he might as well just walk around with a giant lit up **???** over his head.

Better not to risk it, he figures. He didn't want to make Bucky uncomfortable if it turned out he wasn't into him, and he was happy just having him around. Maybe they could at least be friends. It's not like Cuddle Commandos was a _matchmaking_ service, Bucky wasn't coming here on a date. So. It was just gonna be apple bread, and some chatting, and petting the dog. It was fine. He'd be _fine_. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky shows up that night at 8 pm sharp, Lucky in tow.

"Steve. How you doin', pal?" Bucky greets him with his trademark grin. He's wearing a long-sleeved blue henley, and his hair's pulled back in a messy bun. Somehow he still manages to be completely breathtaking. Steve at least has his wits about him enough to smile back. He'd been practicing.

"C'mon in," he says, and lets them both in. Lucky's tail is already wagging, and he barks a happy hello. "I, um, can I get you anything to drink? I was going to make some tea..." he offers, hesitantly. "Green tea and chamomile blend. It's supposed to be relaxing."

Bucky leans down and unclips Lucky's leash from his collar before following Steve into the kitchen. "Sure, tea sounds great. It's a bit chilly out." He ruffles the fur on Lucky's head, and Lucky leans up against him happily.

After he puts the kettle on, Steve gestures to the fresh loaf of bread that's sitting out on the cutting board. "I figured we could have a snack? Since you're gonna be here a little longer this time, I mean. If you want?"

Bucky nods his head amiably. "Mmm. That what smells so good in here?" He closes his beautiful blue eyes for the barest moment, scenting the air, an expression of pure pleasure on his face. Steve imagines, during those two seconds, what else might get him to look that way again. Then he catches himself thinking about it, and panics.

His heart's thudding away in his chest. So much for all that self-talk about not being nervous. "Apple bread. Made it myself", he babbles helplessly. "Well, I didn't make the recipe myself, it was my ma's recipe. I just followed it. Should be cool enough to eat, but still kinda warm. I like butter on mine, but you don't have to, if you don't want. I mean, _do_ you want...?"

He looks up, and Bucky's wearing a soft, pained-looking smile. "Steve. Really. It's okay. I'd love to have a slice, thank you." Steve tries to take a deep breath, ratchet his anxiety down some. Tonight the session was going to be for an hour and a half and even just knowing Bucky was gonna be across the _room_ from him was almost too much to handle. He manages to calm himself by making himself busy, cutting a few thick slices of apple bread and putting them on paper plates.

Sliding into a seat at the kitchen table, Bucky calls the dog over to him, who's gone over to sit right by Steve's feet, waiting hopefully for crumbs. "Lucky, c'mere. Stevie doesn't need you tripping him up. Y' ain't gonna get any snacks, stop begging and be a good boy."

Lucky goes over to Bucky, reluctantly, pausing halfway to try his luck and give Steve a heart-meltingly sad look over his shoulder. Bucky cracks up. "Oh my god, _please_. You are the _worst_ sometimes. So _melodramatic_ , Christ." He feigns seriousness. "Steve, did you know that _no one_ ever feeds this dog?"

"That so?" Steve replies amiably, playing along. "No one, huh. What a poor mistreated dog."

"Also, _no one_ pets him. _Ever_. He's severely neglected." Bucky rolls his eyes. He's scratching behind Lucky's ears, and Lucky's tail is wagging frantically.

"Oh, yeah, for sure. You can tell. Just look at those sad eyes. Call Sarah McLachlan, put him in one of those ASPCA commercials. He'd be perfect," Steve snorts, just as the kettle starts to whistle. In a few short minutes, he's bringing tea and apple bread over to the kitchen table.

There's a fleeting moment when Steve's not sure he can sit across the table from Bucky - it's almost too close - but he forces himself to anyways. Lucky comes over to sit next to him, almost instinctually, and Steve is unspeakably grateful for that. Lucky nudges his hand with his nose, and he reaches over to pet the top of his head. It was fine, he reassures himself. This was _fine_.

He makes himself take a bite of the apple bread, and almost chokes on it when Bucky lets out a loud groan.

"Oh my _god_ , Steve, this is _amaaaaaazing_." Bucky's making that _face_ again, his eyes closed and lips parted just the barest amount, and if that's just what the stupid apple bread does to him, Steve doesn't even wanna _think_ about what else would do that to him, except he _does_ want to think about it, except _not now_ because that sound and the little low moans and huffs of enjoyment he's making are all going straight to his dick. He stares as Bucky licks the crumbs off his lips, his tongue pink and wet, and watches as he opens his eyes again and grins widely at Steve before taking another bite.

He's not going to survive the next hour. There's no way. He's going to die right here at the table with his hand tangled in Lucky's fur. Write it on the autopsy report. Actual cause of death: the sounds Bucky makes when he's enjoying food.

"C'n I have 'nother piece?" Bucky asks, his mouth crammed full of the last bite, and then he sees the expression on Steve's face and swallows. "Stevie, hey, everything okay?"

Steve's not paying the least bit of attention, he's busy willing himself not to blush to the roots of his hair. He is certain he is failing miserably at that, too. _Stevie?_ **_Stevie?_**   _What is happening. What even is life._ Steve grabs his tea, just to have something to do with his hands.  _Right, just act normal_. He takes a bigger gulp than he intended, and promptly burns his mouth on it.

Coughing, Steve reaches for a napkin, almost knocking over his tea and sloshing some onto the table. "I, uh, tea too hot, burned myself a little, stupid of me." 

Bucky reaches out, as if to put his hand on Steve's shoulder or rub his back, and Steve flinches reflexively.

 

* * *

 

Anytime someone reached out towards him, it was trouble, more often than not. 

The doctors, telling his ma to hold him still while Steve sobbed and struggled in vain, his six-year-old self not understanding what was wrong with his body, just that the needles, the stitches, all of it _hurt_. His pa, after half a dozen beers, grabbing him by the arm hard enough to bruise, slamming him into a wall or throwing him to the ground with a slurred curse word or three. Sean O'Malley and Billy D'Angelo shoving him into lockers or holding him over the toilet and flushing his head, calling him a queer and a pussy. 

And the girls, the guys, who decided they wanted to be closer to him than he was ready to get, the ones that would start with casual touch and then just keep escalating until he didn't feel like he could tell them no. Always moving too fast, making him uncomfortable. A friendly hand on the knee would lead to a hand on a thigh that wound its way up to his crotch. A goodnight hug would turn lingering, hands moving over his back and down to cup his ass. A "massage" as a pretext to get hands on him, inevitably ending up roaming somewhere he didn't particularly want them. 

There was always someone pushing him away, or pulling him closer so they could inflict something upon him.

So he cringes. He doesn't mean to do it. 

Steve _wants_ his body to be still, to respond to touch and let himself lean into it without that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. Anticipating the worst, waiting for it to be uncomfortable, for the other shoe to drop.

At the same time, he wants to let Bucky rest a hand on his forearm, rub a circle into his back, ruffle his hair affectionately. _He wants to do it_ , and that was the worst part as far as he was concerned. He wants to just...let it happen. But he was fighting a war against his own brain trying to let himself allow it. 

 

* * *

 

Carefully, Bucky withdraws his hand. 

"Sorry, sorry," he apologizes quickly, placing his hands on the table where Steve can see them. "I knew better than that. Nat said you were like her, I just kinda...forgot for a second, and that's on me."

"Natasha said what?" Steve asks, distracted, mopping up the little puddle of tea around his mug. 

This time, it's Bucky's turn to look like he'd stuck his foot in his mouth. "Uh. Nothing. I mean, just that...you didn't like to be touched. Which is why...the dog, and not..." he trails off, and bites his lip for a second.

"Why I didn't ask for a person, you mean," Steve finishes for him.

"Well. Yeah. Anyways, that's okay, pal, ain't nothin' wrong with that, nothin' to be ashamed of," Bucky adds hurriedly." Like I said last time, I ain't here to do anything you don't feel comfortable with. I promise I won't lay a hand on ya." His lips curve up in an apologetic smile, and he raises both hands, palm out, in an almost defensive posture.

"That's real good of you, Buck. Thank you," Steve says quietly, and stands up to throw the soggy napkin in the trash. He wants to scream _that is the exact opposite of what I want_ , but he keeps his mouth shut. He appreciates that Bucky at least  _understands_ , but he also wants Bucky to touch him so badly he has an overwhelming terror of it. And what kind of sense does that even make? How can he even attempt to explain that bewilderingly contradictory notion to him without sounding like he's nuts? He can't, so he doesn't.  

Steve doesn't finish his tea, or his snack. Instead, he spends the remainder of the hour curled up on the floor of the living room with Lucky, who falls asleep happily snuggled half on Steve's lap.

Meanwhile, Bucky doesn't say a word. He amiably plucks a book from one of the shelves and reads it till their time is up.

When he and the dog leave, Steve is so flustered that he forgets to give him the extra loaf of apple bread. Sighing, he puts it in the freezer. Maybe he'd thaw it back out and eat it one day, but now he's not sure he can taste it without reliving this disaster of an evening.

 

* * *

 

"The dog can only do a maximum appointment of an hour," Natasha says gently over the phone. "We kinda let it slide last time, but next week it's just not possible. He's our only dog, and not only is he our most requested cuddler, but he does need his own downtime, too."

"Oh," Steve replies, because he doesn't know what else to say. She'd called him as a confirmation for next week's appointment, which was supposed to be two hours.

Nat hums thoughtfully on the other end of the line, he can hear her tapping something on a computer keyboard. "Do you want to reschedule? Or do a split?"

"A what now?" 

"Well, halfway through, we can have our other handler pick up the dog. Human cuddler for the remainder. A kind of split shift. You'll still get your two hours, that way," she explains.

Steve's palms begin sweating, and he doesn't answer at first. "Uh. I, um, well," he stalls. He pictures Bucky's hands, strong and calloused, touching him, wrapping around his own. He imagines Bucky's body spooning him, the length of him pulled close, flush to his back. Or would it be the other way around? Bucky pressed to his chest, warm and smelling of clean skin, apple shampoo, fabric softener and a bit of honest sweat. He thinks of burying his nose at the nape of his neck, in his dark tangle of hair, and inhaling, the exhale tickling his skin and making him bubble up a laugh. His skin ripples with goosebumps, and his breathing picks up. _No but yes but no._

When Natasha speaks again, her voice is low, but kind. "You know, the kind of physical contact you choose to engage in during your time is up to you. I know it can feel a little daunting, at first. But it's okay to work your way up to it, slow as you want. No one's judging you, Steve, we promise."

"What do _you_ know about it?" Steve snaps, stung.

He hears her chuckle, not offended in the least. "I used to have a horror of physical contact. When I got back from..." she trails, and then starts again. "I wanted to touch people, wanted them to touch me, but it was just too difficult. I was lucky, and I had some excellent people - _friends_ \- help me through it. I realized that I wasn't alone after all, and I wanted to reach out to other people who needed that kind of thing. It's why I started up this service."

Steve clears his throat. His ears are burning with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. "Sorry. I just. This is hard."

"My advice? Building up trust helps make it easier. If you want me to send you someone different - if James isn't working out for you - I can try sending one of our other agents, if you'd like. There's Sam, or Clint, or myself."

He sighs, suddenly exhausted. "I don't...I don't know. Can't I just keep the dog?" he jokes weakly.

Natasha laughs. "Clint Barton loves that dog like it was his actual child, and he is one _hell_ of a marksman. You can _try_ to keep him from Lucky at your own risk, but I wouldn't recommend it."

"Yeah, well. Worth a shot." Steve looks at what he's been doodling and it's a hand in repose. Unmistakably Bucky's hand. He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath before answering. "Yeah, I guess, let's go all in. Split shift."

"Good choice," Nat hums approvingly. He can hear the smile in her voice as she confirms the details. "Thursday night. James and Lucky will come by at eight, Clint will pick up the dog at nine, and then you and James are on your own until ten."

Steve hangs up the phone feeling both exhilarated and anxious, and circles the date on his calendar in red with a shaky hand.

 

* * *

 

By 7:45 Steve is so worked up he wants to peel off his own skin and crawl under the house or maybe just leave Earth forever.

When Lucky shows up, Bucky in tow, it's so bad that Steve thinks the dog must immediately sense it. He's all over Steve, pressing against him, licking his face and his hands, and generally not allowing him to leave his sight (or be out of reach). 

"Hey, Steve," Bucky greets him politely.

"Hi, Bucky," Steve replies in kind. He is absolutely, positively, _not_ going to make this weird. He is determined to make sure that the evening passes without fainting or blushing or getting an embarrassing boner or all three at once. 

Steve ends up clinging to Lucky like a drowning man to a life raft while Bucky nonchalantly selects another book to read off the shelf. Trying not to look at him, Steve pets the dog and tries to relax and prepare himself. Once Clint comes to pick Lucky up, he and Bucky will be alone in the house together. No dog to act as buffer between the two of them, no way to avoid conversation or...or what Bucky'd come here to do, which was _touch_ him. Steve almost jumps out of his skin when the doorbell rings.

He peels himself away from Lucky and off the floor as slowly as if he's going to his execution. When he opens the door, Lucky barks happily, his tail wagging, and he bounds up to greet the blonde man on the other side as soon as he sees him. The man drops to one knee and laughs as the dog places his paws on his shoulders and licks his face enthusiastically.

"I see you've been neglecting my dog again," the man snorts with restrained laughter. He grins up at Steve. "Hi. I'm Clint."

Clint's got a bandaid across one cheek, and his nose looks like it's been broken a couple of times. His sandy blonde hair is sticking up in multiple directions, and his smile is infectious. "Steve," he replies, and he can't help but smile back. "Yeah, _no_ one's been petting him at all. It's been rough for him. Nice to meetcha. C'mon in, his leash is just inside."

"Hey, Bucky," Clint calls out when he walks in. "I'll save ya some pizza back at home." Lucky barks and dances excitedly, having heard the magic word. "Yeah, yeah, we're gonna get you some pizza, pizza dog. You done good today."

He manages to wrangle Lucky long enough to clip the leash on, and then says, "Well, all right then. I'll be getting out of you guys' hair...aw, dog, no." In the short time it took him to stand back up, Lucky's wound the leash around his legs. The dog just grins his happy doggy grin up at him, his tail wagging so frantically it looks like it might fly right off his butt. Clint sighs dramatically. 

It only takes a minute for Clint to untangle himself and say his goodbyes. As the door clicks shut, Steve feels a wave of nausea wash over him.

He turns to face Bucky, trying to keep his expression neutral. Bucky closes the book he's been reading, and Steve clears his throat. They stare at each other for a long moment.

"So," Steve says, and hears his voice crack like a teenager. His breath hitches in his chest, and he can feel himself break into a sweat.

Bucky smiles warmly. "So." He stands, and waits patiently for Steve to walk over towards him.

Steve takes a deep, slow breath, and begins to move.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS. I am so overwhelmed by the positive responses this AU has gotten so far! Thank you so much for all your kind comments, kudos, and messages on Tumblr. As ever, your feedback means a lot to me so don't be shy!
> 
> Many folks have asked me where I draw my inspiration from. I am a person who is touch averse, so a lot of the things in this AU are based upon my own experiences with that particular brand of anxiety. I am so incredibly pleased to know this resonates with other people like me (and Steve).
> 
> UP NEXT: ARE THEY GONNA TOUCH FINALLY?!?! MAYBE! IS IT GONNA END WELL? HA HA HA WE'LL SEE. IS LUCKY GONNA GET SOME PIZZA? SIGNS POINT TO YES PROBABLY.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve makes himself walk into the living room, towards Bucky. His hands are sweating, his back tense and ramrod straight. He feels like he's vibrating, probably because he is.

Bucky notices it right away, his smile fading. "Steve? Hey, pal, you're shaking. We really don't _have_ to do this, y'know. If you want me to go, I can head out. No hard feelings, I promise."

At the thought of Bucky leaving, his heart drops, feels like it falls right into his queasy stomach. "No, don't," he blurts out, clenching his jaw. "I can do this." More than that, he _wants_ to do this, but that part he keeps to himself. He _wants_ to be touched by Bucky. Gently, kindly, softly touched, and not flinch from it like an abused puppy.

"Okay. No rush." Bucky nods gently, and stays where he is, unmoving, watching to see where Steve wanted to settle. 

Steve sits down on the couch, letting out a whoosh of breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"How 'bout this. How about...we put on a movie or somethin', okay?" Bucky offers. "What's your favourite?" He turns towards the small rack of DVDs next to the entertainment center and peruses them, perking up when he sees something he likes. "Oh, nice, you've got all the seasons of Futurama? I'm _so_ putting that on."

He selects a disk and slides it into the DVD player, which is underneath the TV. Steve takes three deep slow breaths and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he is staring directly at Bucky's butt, bent over in front of him while he's trying to figure out how to work the television. He sucks in another reflexive breath. _Oh my Jesus god._

"Here, just - let me -" Steve fumbles, reaching for the array of remotes on the coffee table and knocking them both to the ground. "It's a pain to figure out, I got it," Steve mumbles, snatching them up off the floor. He presses a couple of buttons, switching the TV over to auxilary and pressing play on the remote for the DVD player. It's not till he goes to put the remotes back on the table that he realizes Bucky's still standing there.

Smiling sheepishly, Bucky asks quietly, "Where d'ya want me?"

Steve has a brief but intense vision of pulling Bucky into his arms and kissing him breathless. Pushing him down onto the coffee table and peeling off his shirt. Bending him over the arm of the couch and - "Uh. Wherever you like," he replies stupidly.

"Is this okay?" he asks, settling himself down hesitantly on the opposite edge of the couch, as far away from him as possible. As if he were a bomb that might go off. Steve hates it.

"It's fine, I just, I'm not," he starts, fumbling.

"D'ya wanna c'mere?" Bucky interrupts gently, patting the empty space next to him.

Steve swallows hard, tries to imagine closing the distance, taking up that space. _Yes but no but yes_. Seeing his hesitation, Bucky tries again. "What would be more comfortable for you? Me touching you, or you touching me?"

This gives Steve pause. No one's ever asked him that before. He'd never even considered it. 

"It's okay if you're not ready. You're allowed to say no."

Smiling weakly, Steve tucks his legs underneath him on the couch, reflexively taking up as little space as physically possible. "I think...is it okay if we just...do this? Sit here like..." _Like friends_ , he thinks, _like normal people do, two feet away from one another_.

"Yeah, Stevie, sure," Bucky agrees softly, and he suppresses a shiver at the "Stevie". Only his ma had ever called him that, before she passed. On anyone else's lips it always sounded mocking, made him feel _small_ , but with Bucky, just like his ma, it was an endearment. A kindness. 

Intimate.

They spend the remainder of the evening on opposite sides of the couch, watching cartoons. Every time Bucky laughs, or looks over at him, grinning, to share in a funny moment, Steve imagines what it'd be like to see that looking up from his lap, or curled up at his side. Breathing in his clean fabric-softener-and-skin scent, leaning up against his shoulder. What it'd be like to hear that laugh with his ear pressed to Bucky's chest, feeling it resonate through both their bodies, the blue henley soft over hard muscle.

After their time is up, Steve watches Bucky leave and then closes the door once he's gone, pressing his back up against it. Slowly, he slumps down to the floor, aching so badly with want that tears sting his eyes.  _Next time_ , he promises himself. Next time he'd let Bucky near him. He wanted to be touched so badly it made him feel like a raw nerve, and he barely gets any sleep that night, picturing it in his head over and over again:  _what if, what if, what if_.

 

* * *

 

It's not as if he hasn't had any friends before, or any partners. He'd _managed_. It was just that since he'd moved to Chicago, he'd just grown a lot more isolated. He figured that he'd meet people, in time, when he wasn't busy with his work. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew it was a lie. He'd been here for a year now, barely knew anyone outside of casual acquaintances and the occasional online date that ended in a flaming disaster. 

Still, sometimes he liked to get out of his house, do things around people, especially on weekends when everyone else seemed to be going out and having a good time. Which is why he finds himself walking down the street to Lady Gregory's on a Saturday night. He liked their truffled kettle corn, and he figured a beer or two or even a whiskey tasting flight would be a pleasant treat for a change. He'd been there a few times in the past, but was by no means a regular.

Which is why he's surprised when he hears someone calling his name over the thumping bass of some Beyonce song. He figures it's not for him - Steve's a common name, after all - and keeps moving for a few more seconds, till the yelling becomes more insistent. "Steve. STEVE! _STEEEEVE_!" He turns, and through the low light he sees a familiar face at the corner table by the fireplace. Bucky. His chest tightens, and his breath catches, seeing that gorgeous face again. He's with a couple of people he doesn't recognize, and another that he does - Clint.

Bucky's waving him over, and he represses the urge to run away with a little shriek. He plasters on a smile and approaches the group.

"Hey, Buck. Fancy meeting you here," he greets him over the music, friendly enough.

"I know right?" He grins, and nods behind him to the table. "We were just here for a couple drinks and maybe some dessert. They got this amazin' sticky toffee pudding -" Bucky cuts himself off abruptly. "You here with somebody? I don't want to keep you, if you're busy."

He _could_ lie. He could say _yeah, I'm here on a date_ and walk away, but this place wasn't big enough that he could disappear in it, and it'd be clear he was sitting alone at a table or the bar within a few minutes. He could say _I was just leaving_ , but he had literally just walked in and they'd _all_ seen him. "No, I'm...I'm not meeting anyone. I was just gonna have a drink and a snack, myself."

"You came here alone? Oh, no, that's too sad. Not allowed. No, you're sitting with us now," a familiar low, smoky voice behind Bucky chimes in. "Nice to finally meet you in person, Steve." The redhead behind Bucky smiles slightly. "I'm Natasha."

"Yeah, so, that's Nat." Bucky tips his head towards her, then gestures to the sandy blonde on the other side of the table that Steve had recognized. "You know Clint already, and this is Sam, next to him." He indicates a stunningly handsome African-American fellow sitting in between Clint and Natasha, who's wearing an easy smile, nodding at him in acknowledgement. _Oh no they're hot_ , Steve groans internally, his artist's eyes taking quick stock of everyone at the table. _They're all hot this is so unfaaaair._

There's drinks scattered over the table, it looks like they'd been here for at least two rounds, by his estimation. Clint scoots his chair over to the side, and grabs another one from the empty table next to them. "C'mon, sit, sit," Clint urges. He points at the chair. "Sit."

Sam rolls his eyes and snorts. "He ain't your dog, Barton, damn." He leans in a little and says loudly, "You'll have to excuse Clint. He means well, it's just that he was literally born in a barn and has zero manners."

"You can take the boy outta the farm but you can't take the farm outta the boy," Clint shoots back, grinning. "Whatcha drinkin', Steve?" he asks, flagging over the waitress.

"Uh." Steve turns back towards Bucky. His mind suddenly blanks on all beverages existing in the world when Bucky smiles at him. He sits himself down at the table before his knees can buckle before that flash of white teeth, those blue eyes. "I'll...have what you're having."

"Two Moscow Mules," Bucky orders, and the waitress nods, smiles and rushes away.

"300 whiskeys on the bar menu at the Irish pub and this one orders vodka," Sam groans. "Figures. Always gotta be different, Barnes."

Bucky smirks. "You love me for it. Everybody loves me for it. Even the dog."

" _Speaking_ of my dog, _this_ is the one that's been monopolizing him." Clint winks at the table at large, nodding towards Steve.

Natasha plays along, feigning seriousness. "Oh, yeahhhh, the one that hasn't been petting him. Lucky's told me _all_ about this guy. Says he won't share his pizza, too."

Steve snickers. "That dog is a hustler. Unbelievable. I'm surprised he's not here tonight. Might be able to charm a few drinks off the bartender with those sad eyes." Everybody laughs, and Steve is relieved.

The group has a way of putting him at ease, making him feel like he's been friends with them for years. Steve is incredibly grateful for that, even if they're all distractingly good-looking. By the time the waitress comes back with their drinks, he's comfortable enough that he's relaxed in his chair some, and his smile feels less artificial. He realizes, belatedly, that not a one of them tried to touch him when they were introduced. No handshakes, nothing. It stood to reason they knew he was a client, but generally speaking, most people who hire... _professional cuddlers_...generally _wanted_ to be touched, not the other way around. He wonders if Natasha's said something to them.

He feels uncomfortable again for a brief minute, but then Sam pulls them all into an enthusiastic conversation about action movies and orders another round, and he forgets to be worried about it, for awhile.

 

* * *

 

They end up not leaving the bar till one in the morning. When Steve looks at his phone to check the time he does a double-take. 

"Wow," he says stupidly. He's not drunk, but he's definitely buzzed. Buzzed enough to have lost track of time, anyways. 

"How you gettin' home, Steve?" Sam asks as he slides his jacket on. "You didn't drive, did you?" 

He shakes his head. "Nah, I walked."

"I'll walk you home, Stevie," Bucky offers casually, wrapping a fuzzy grey scarf around his neck.

Steve prays that it is dark enough in the bar that no one can see the blush he can feel creeping from his hairline down to his chest. _Stevie. Jesus, Mary and Joseph_. "Oh, it's...you don't have to, it's not far, 'm not, like, _drunk_ ," he stutters out.

Natasha, amused, gives him a _look_. "I think he's gonna insist. Neighborhood like this, you don't know what's out there at this hour. Could get dangerous."

"It's only a few blocks over, it ain't like it's a bother," and Bucky's smiling at him again, in that way that makes Steve have to remember how breathing works.

Steve calls Natasha's bluff. "Andersonville has some of the lowest crime rates in the entire city, _please_." He snorts, turning back to Bucky. "And how do you know where I live anyw-" he rolls his eyes. Maybe he's a little more buzzed than he thought. Of _course_ Bucky knew where he lived, he'd only been over three times. "Right."

When they step outside, it's chilly, but not yet the brutal cold Chicago winters could bring. It was coming, though, he could feel it in the air. Everyone says their goodbyes, and then all too soon, it's just him and Bucky, walking down Clark Street together, the taste of ginger and lime lingering in his mouth from the drinks. It's a good feeling. He likes the city, he likes his neighborhood, he likes the light buzz he's got going, he likes how the evening had turned out.

"That was nice," Steve hums happily after walking a block in silence. "Thanks for. For that."

Bucky chuckles, low and pleased. "Thanks for joining us. It _was_ nice. They're a good bunch. They liked you, a lot."

"Yeah? How can you tell?" Steve turns his head to sneak a glance at the brunet, partly to gauge whether or not he's being sarcastic, and partly because he just likes looking at Bucky. His hands suddenly itch to get ahold of his sketchpad, he wants to draw Bucky just in that moment, half in light and half in shadow, under the streetlights.

"Welllll," he drawls, pretending to think. "Natasha spoke directly to you, on several occasions. That's a big one. She doesn't do that with just anybody. And Sam kept smilin' at you, and laughin' at your lame jokes." Bucky winks at him. "And Clint likes you because you like dogs, and anyone who likes dogs, especially _his_ dog, is okay in his book."

"What about you? How do I know if _you_ like me?" Steve asks without thinking, the words just tumbling out of his mouth. He feels like he should cringe at it - tomorrow he probably will - but he's feeling emboldened by the Moscow Mules he'd had and decides he's not going to back down from it.

He hears Bucky make a sharp intake of breath next to him, and there's the briefest of pauses before he replies. "I'm walkin' you home, ain't I? Protecting you from the neighborhood toughs," he jokes, nodding at the two young ladies holding hands walking past them with their Pomeranian.

Steve laughs, and it's real and genuine. "Yeah, it's a real rough area. 'Preciate your lookin' out for me, Buck. Don't know _what_ I'd do without ya." When he looks over at him again, Bucky's smiling, but there's a look in his eyes he can't quite decipher. Pity, probably, at the sad loser that had to pay someone to come to his house once a week to hug a dog. "Walk home alone and have Thursday nights free, I figure," he finishes lamely.

He makes a little huffing sound. "You think I'd have called you over to join us if I didn't like talking to ya? Or that I'd offer to walk you home despite my ride leaving ten minutes ago? Well, now I'm a little insulted, Stevie," he says mildly, not sounding insulted at all.

At the endearment, Steve blushes a little. "You...Stevie. I like it. I like it when you call me that. 'S what my ma used to call me."

Grinning, Bucky says, "Well, then I'm gonna keep doin' it. Suits ya, somehow. And you can keep calling me Buck, if you wanna. Deal?" His eyes are sparkling in the streetlights, his cheeks flushed with the cold, his hair escaping in little tendrils from the bun he'd put it in earlier.

"It's a deal." Steve feels dizzy, but in a good way. At first, it almost feels like he's about to have one of his fainting spells that he had all the time as a kid, and it takes him a minute to identify it for what it is. "Oh. _Oh_ ," he says out loud, and a laugh bubbles up in his chest. He's so _stupid_ and it's so _simple_ , and yet here it is.

He's _happy_.

"What?" Bucky asks, curiously. "What are you laughing at?" 

"Nothing. Just...it sounds dumb. Nevermind." They're two houses down from his own, now, and he feels a pang of dismay. Steve would really rather this evening not end so soon. He takes the last few steps reluctantly, till they're standing right in front of his front walk.

Bucky reaches out, like he's gonna clap him on the shoulder or pull him in for a hug, thinks better of it, and keeps his hands to himself at the last second. Steve very much wishes he wouldn't, suddenly. "Well. I guess this is the end of the line," Steve sighs, smiling ruefully."It's...I'm just...it's been such a good night, you know?"

He watches Bucky press his lips together and then avert his gaze down to the ground, as if he's holding back saying something he desperately wants to spit out. His face is half in shadow, and Steve doesn't think he's ever seen someone so effortlessly beautiful in his life. He could look at him forever, he thinks, and never grow tired of it. Bucky looks back up at him, a little half-smile on his face as if he's made a difficult decision.

"Anybody else, I'd say the night doesn't have to end here. But I ain't gonna be like that, not to you, not if you ain't-" Steve can't take it anymore, he can't even think about it too much or he'll be paralyzed with doubt and terror and won't be able to move. Before he can finish the sentence, he closes the distance and kisses Bucky square on the lips.

 

* * *

 

Or, at least, that's what he wishes he'd had done. 

In the end he just stood there stupidly, and thanked Bucky for walking back with him, and watched him from the window till he hailed a cab and it had pulled away. "Not if you ain't ready," he'd said, which had given him some small hope that they could be friends, at least. Outside of the weird...cuddle situation thing.

It was little consolation for going to bed alone, and even smaller consolation that Thursday was five days away. This time it was an evening, a whole evening with just him and Bucky. No Lucky at all. Plenty of time, he figures, to psych himself up to _actually touching Bucky_. To letting Bucky touch him.

He could do it, this time, really for real. He's sure of it. He almost did tonight, and that had to count for something, right? That he was at least more open to it? That he was _almost_ ready for it?

"You can do this, Rogers," he mutters to himself as he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. "I believe in you. You idiot."

He tosses and turns all that night, picturing all the ways it would have gone if he'd just kissed him.

 

* * *

 

Thursday rolls around. This time, Steve has decided to make peanut butter chocolate chip cookies as a snack, and he's gone to the Redbox and picked out a movie for them to watch. He's lit some scented candles, he's pulled out every last one of his softest pillows and blankets to use for his Secret Weapon, and he's self-talked himself till he's ready. So ready. 

When Bucky walks in, he lets out a burst of laughter once he walks into the living room. "What is _this_?" he asks, incredulous, gesturing at the thing in the middle of it.

"It's a fort," Steve explains innocuously. "We're gonna be like five year olds tonight. We're gonna sit in the fort, we're gonna watch a movie, and we're gonna eat cookies and drink milk. That okay?"

Bucky blinks at him. "Is that okay. Is that _okay_? Oh my Jesus god, that's _more_ than okay, that's just about the best thing I've ever been asked to do in my entire _life_ ," he exaggerates, flapping his arms about wildly for emphasis. "This is _great_. 'Is this okay', are you shitting me? Is this why you told me to bring comfortable clothing?"

Steve thinks the brilliant smile on Bucky's face is the best thing he's ever seen. He _looks_ like a little kid, suddenly, his enthusiasm lighting up his whole face, his entire body, dropping years off of him. He wants to find ways to make Bucky look like that always.

"Yeah, that's why," Steve replies, gesturing at himself. He's wearing a pair of his most comfortable sweats and an old worn T-shirt from the Special Olympics Torch Run he did three years ago. For his part, Bucky's in a pair of well-loved jeans and a pullover hoodie.

"All right. Let's get started," Bucky grins.

Steve gathers a plate of cookies, two glasses of milk, and together, they climb into the fort to get settled.

 

* * *

 

The movie is Big Hero Six, which Steve has seen but Bucky, happily, hasn't. Thirty minutes and three cookies in, Bucky stretches out, propped up against one of the couch cushions that'd been thrown on the floor. Steve's attention is divided between the sight of Bucky's bare feet and Baymax on the screen. _Even his feet are pretty_ , he thinks, _dear god, is there anything about him that isn't?_

Slowly, carefully, he stretches out at a slight angle to him, closer than he's ever been before. Bucky doesn't appear to notice, enraptured by the movie. Gradually, over the next fifteen minutes, he pretends to focus on the movie intently and manages to inch his legs closer...and closer...and closer, until he brushes the sole of his foot over the top of Bucky's. When his skin brushes his, he sucks in a deep breath and suppresses panic. It was fine, this was _fine_.

To his credit, Bucky doesn't react with surprise or disgust or pull away, and weirdly, Steve realizes that's what he'd expected to happen. They sit there like that, feet touching, for what seems like forever but is probably only two or three minutes. Steve can barely breathe with it. He's not even paying attention to the movie anymore.

He decides, finally, to just go for it, and sidles in close to Bucky's side, turning to nestle, gently, against his shoulder. His heart feels like it's going to explode out of his chest, and he tries to breathe, deep and even.

"Stevie. This good? You all right?" Bucky asks quietly, looking down at him. Bucky smells like laundry and Irish Spring soap and heaven. He's warm and the sweatshirt is soft and Bucky's body is sturdy and strong underneath, just like Steve had imagined he would be. Steve decides, as he takes a wheezy breath, that he's all right with dying right here.

Nodding, he allows Bucky to shift slightly so that he's settled in the space between his chest and his right arm, his head resting against his collarbone. Steve can hear his heartbeat through the shirt, thudding away steadily and slowly. He can hear the in and out of his breathing, relaxed and unhurried. It is the singular most calming thing he has ever experienced, he thinks, until Bucky's hand starts rubbing little circles between his shoulder blades, gingerly. 

Without meaning to, Steve lets out a low moan, but his body tenses up, rebelling. "Sssh, hey, it's okay, it's okay. You want me to-" he pulls his hand away, and Steve shakes his head firmly.

"No, 'm fine, you can - it's good, I'm good, just. Keep going, please?" he murmurs into the sweatshirt.

"You'll tell me if it's too much, all right?" Bucky whispers, and Steve nods.

Blessedly, Bucky puts his hand back where it had been moments ago, and picks up where he left off. It feels so good, so right, so _normal,_ that he's overwhelmed with just this little bit of contact. Steve is shaking, and he can't get control of his breathing, and he tries to relax, focus on anything but what's happening to his body. 

Bucky picks up on it, though, and starts murmuring quiet encouragement as he keeps his own breaths regulated and calm. "Stevie, you're doing so good right now. So good. Just breathe with me, doll. It's okay, it's okay, I ain't gonna let nothin' bad happen to you, Stevie. Real proud of you, you're doing great. You're doin' just fine, you're safe here with me. 'S okay, baby, you just go ahead and let it out, if you need to, it's all right." 

Steve hadn't realized that he'd started crying. Every breath he inhales smells like Bucky, every exhale he can feel himself pressing closer to him, soaking his shirt with his tears. Nobody'd ever touched him like this with such kindness, not since he was a very small child, at least. 

To his credit, Bucky just pulls him closer as he sobs, rocking him gently and running his fingers through his hair, soothing him through it, wiping away his tears as best he can one-handed. "I know, I know. It's okay. Let it go, Stevie, let it all go. I'm here."

They stay curled like that long after the movie ends, and until Steve is all cried out. He feels sleepy and tranquil, the way you do after a good long cry. _Cathartic_ , he thinks drowsily. If he had the presence of mind he'd be embarrassed. _Oh well, plenty of time for that tomorrow_ , he figures.

Bucky holds him close until he falls asleep, and he wakes up on the floor of the pillow fort alone when the sun comes up the next morning, feeling better than he has in years.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't last long.

As he walks into the kitchen, he notices there's a note on the table, written in an unfamiliar slanted scrawl. Confused, he picks it up and reads it.

 

_Steve,_

_I wanted to tell you this while you were awake, but I didn't get the chance._

_You looked so peaceful sleeping it would have been a shame to wake you._

_I think it's for the best that we assign another agent to your case right now._

_I'll talk to Nat, and have Sam take next week's overnight mission._

_Thanks for understanding._

_\- Bucky_

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH NO IS THIS THE END OF THESE TWO ADORABLE DORKS FOREVER????????????
> 
> (hint: no)
> 
> STAY TUNED TILL NEXT TIME!
> 
> In the meantime, thank you all SO MUCH for all your wonderful words of encouragement, happiness, and general squeals of delight in my direction! It means the world to me!
> 
> One more chapter to go...and this one will be the explicit chapter, so, buckle up!
> 
> (also, if you ARE ever in Chicago, Lady Gregory's in Andersonville DOES have the best sticky toffee pudding, no lie.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR PATIENTLY WAITING FOR THIS UPDATE, FRIENDS. 
> 
> I signed up for the Steve/Bucky Spring Fling (go read that if you wanna, it's a _delightful_ over-the-top one-shot PWP) so this got a bit delayed as a result while I worked on that piece for the exchange.
> 
> ANYWAYS. Here it is, finally. Chapter 4.

Steve drops the note as if it's burned him. His knees buckle, his stomach twists, and he sits heavily into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. _Oh_ , he thinks slowly, the shock washing over him like an ocean wave,  _oh, well then_. 

He fucked up. He fucked up _so bad_. He hadn't meant to be such a hot mess last night, he was just...overwhelmed, not used to being held, and he hadn't explained himself to Bucky  _at all_ , and had just cried himself to sleep on him, while he was pinned underneath his weight helplessly. He'd just had to sit there politely, because he was being paid to endure it. God, now that he thinks about it, how creepy was it that he'd _cried all over a dude,_ a dude who _he was paying to cuddle with_ , what was _wrong_ with him.

Bucky, rightly, probably figured that this situation was way above his pay grade and wanted to bail. It was too much, _way_ too much to put on him, how fucked up he was, and he'd weirded him out beyond the point of no return. Steve didn't blame him one bit. 

Stupid of him to think that they could at least be friends.

Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea to start with. He figures he'll call Natasha, cancel any further appointments. 

As Steve picks up his phone, he looks over at the table by the door, and his heart sinks even further. The money lies on top of it, just where he'd placed it the night before. Bucky hadn't taken it. He'd been so desperate to get away as quickly as he could that he'd forgotten to take his payment when he left.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Natasha. It's Steve."

"Steve, good to hear from you again. What can I help you with?" Her voice is smooth, professional.

"Well, I, uh, it's just that -" Steve pauses, trying to think of how to explain it. "I, uh, last night, the payment," he stumbles.

"Right, $175 for the evening session with James, and you're marked down in my ledger as paid..." she hums, flipping some papers in the background. "Yes. Paid, cash."

"Wait, what?" Steve asks, bewildered. "But he didn't - I still have -" He takes a deep breath, tries to figure out what just happened. "I think it was a mistake, he left the cash here."

There's a pause that feels like an eternity, and then Natasha speaks. "Steve, would you please hold?"

 

* * *

 

" _You did what?!_ " Nat shrieks into the phone. "Barnes, you _idiot_!" Okay, she's not _really_ shrieking, but she might as well be. Her voice has raised only slightly, tipping him off as to how furious she actually is with him. Bucky closes his eyes.

"You know, in retrospect, I _could_ see how the note might be misinterpreted," Bucky allows.

Over the line, he can hear Natasha exhale a frustrated, incredulous huff of breath. "You left him a note? A note that _could have been misinterpreted_? Not only is he a _client_ , James, he's -"

"- the adorable guy you have a ridiculous crush on that is so big you can see it from space, yeah yeah, Christ, Nat. I know."

"There is red in my ledger, Barnes," she hisses, and the fact that she's stopped using his first name at all is a clear indication as to how badly Bucky has fucked up.

Bucky sighs. "Look, I paid for him, okay? I just...Nat, he made us a _pillow fort_. God damned cutest thing I ever seen."

Laughing softly, Nat relents. "Forts are for children. You owe me a debt."

"I know, I know. You know I'm good for it, Nataschenka," he says sweetly, turning on the charm.

"I _hate_ it when you call me that," she groans. " _Goodbye_ , James." 

When she hangs up on him she sits, staring at the blinking "hold" light on the phone. After a few seconds, a sly smile creeps across her face.

 

* * *

 

He'd been doodling on the notepad he always keeps on the counter, not paying much attention, when Natasha comes back on the line.

"Steve. Hi. Thanks for holding." Now her voice is calm. Sweet, even. "I'm _so_ sorry about the confusion. I would be happy to send James to collect the payment, at your convenience."

 "Oh, no, I don't...I can just drop it off, or something," Steve says quickly, just as he realizes he has absolutely no idea where their office is. Or even if they even _have_ an office. He just doesn't want the humiliation of having to face Bucky again, look at him as if he's some diseased thing as he takes the cash from his hand. But, wait. Maybe Bucky won't be there at all. Maybe Bucky didn't say anything to Natasha yet.

"Oh. Well..." Natasha pauses, and he can hear her exhale a soft breath. "I suppose if you'd prefer to drop it off, that's perfectly acceptable." She gives him an address that's not too far from his place, over off of Ashland Avenue in Lakeview. He was vaguely familiar with the neighborhood, having gone to the Music Box theater to see indie films a few times, and one disastrous Death Cab for Cutie concert at the Metro, where he had two beers spilled on him by an extremely apologetic but very intoxicated girl and decided to leave.

"Yeah, that's..that's fine, I was going to be in the neighborhood later today anyways," he lies. "How late are you open?"

"Till eleven," Nat says pleasantly.

"Oh, wow, yeah, I'll _definitely_ be by before then," he laughs. "Probably around..." Steve glances at the clock. It's 9 am. Figuring in work, and then some errands..."Six-ish," he decides. That was a perfectly normal time. He could drop off the cash, cancel all of his upcoming appointments, get the hell out of there forever, and then go pick up some takeout he wouldn't be able to eat because his stomach was churning with anxiety and regret. Maybe watch some TV while pushing the food around on his plate until it grew congealed and cold. Just a regular, normal evening of being alone for the rest of his life.

"Six would be fine, Steve. See you then."

Hanging up, he looks down at his sketchpad, where he'd idly sketched a sweet-faced, one-eyed golden retriever, tail in mid-wag. Lucky. He smiles ruefully at it, even though his heart felt like it had cracked in half. He'd miss the dog, too. 

 

* * *

 

The day crawls by. He can't concentrate on his work at all - he's _supposed_ to be putting together a website and additional marketing materials for one of his real estate clients - but by one pm he just gives up entirely.

He makes himself lunch, but can't find the appetite to eat it. He tries to run his errands, but he forgets two of the packages he was supposed to mail at home, and when he gets to the grocery store he just ends up wandering up and down the aisles, staring at the selections on the shelves as if he had no idea what any of them were. All he can think about is Bucky's blue eyes, the little crinkles at the corners when he smiles. His laundry-and-Irish-Spring-clean-skin smell. How warm he'd been. The way his hands on him had been so gentle as he'd pulled him close. The note on the counter echoing in his head, _I think it's for the best that we assign another agent to your case right now_. Translation: _I don't want to be around you, you fucking weirdo. You make my skin crawl_.

When he gets to the front and stands in line at the register he looks at what he'd put in the basket - a bunch of random, unrelated items. There's a box of mac & cheese, a jar of lemon curd, a pound of ground beef, a dish sponge, two bananas, a plastic container of olives from the olive bar, and a bag of Starburst jellybeans. "Whatever," Steve mumbles to himself and puts the items on the conveyor belt. Save for the dish sponge, they were all technically food items. This nightmare day would soon be over, and he's anxious to just get it over with already.

Even after dropping the groceries back at his apartment and putting them away, there's still time to kill before six. He could just take the bus, which runs straight up Clark Street, but then he'd be way early. He decides to take the El, mainly because the Bryn Mawr stop for the Red Line was a bit out of the way, and he figures he could kill some of his pent-up nervous energy by walking.

Finally, when the clock slowly reaches what he deems an acceptable time to leave, he zips up his fleece-lined leather jacket, takes a deep breath, and starts off for the train stop.

 

* * *

 

It's getting darker out earlier these days, and chillier, too. This would be his second Chicago winter, and he still wasn't fully used to it.

Last year had been his first one here, and, naturally, his luck, it was an absolute shitshow. They'd had something called a "polar vortex" that brought the city to its knees a couple of times, with record snowstorms and brutal subzero temperatures. It was also the first time he'd ever been grateful that he mostly worked from home as a freelance graphic designer. That had definitely had its perks, as he'd been able to keep holed up in his apartment for weeks at a time, only emerging between "vortexes" to restock his fridge and pantry when the temperatures had risen a few degrees and the streets had been plowed and shoveled. 

He chuckles to himself, remembering the first time he'd seen a piece of furniture just sitting in the street. He'd helpfully moved the lawn chairs from the curb up onto the sidewalk, thinking it had been somehow misplaced from someone's front porch, and then a woman had come screeching out of the house across the street threatening to break his fingers, what did he think he was _doing_ , that was someone's _parking spot_ and they had _dibs_ , what was he, _new_ around here?

Laughing a little, he'd replaced the chairs exactly where they'd been planted on the snowy curb, then stepped back with a palms-up gesture of surrender.

And that is how Steve Rogers learned about "parking chairs".

 

* * *

 

Riding the El, looking out at the city, he tries to calm his stomach down. He hadn't eaten a thing all day, managed to drink a glass of water, and now he was almost feeling a little lightheaded. 

"It'll be over soon," he tries to reassure himself for the millionth time. When the chimes and the recorded voice announce the Addison stop, he gets off the train reluctantly, like he's going to his own execution. It's a Friday night, and even though it was November and the Cubs were in the off-season, Wrigleyville was still as lively as ever, bros in polos and baseball caps already appearing on the streets on their way to the bars to get drunk with other bros, blonde girls in short skirts and tight tops with no coats (despite the temperature) and four inch heels giggling with inhumanly high pitches trailing after them.

Twenty minutes and several blocks later, he arrives at the specified address. Steve stands in front for a moment, double-checking, but the address on his phone and the address on the outside match. It's a three-flat, and at first he's not sure what button to press on the buzzer. They're all unmarked, no names, just numbers: 1, 2, and 3. Natasha hadn't given him a suite or apartment number. He's starting to feel like he's in the wrong place, until he looks over and sees the mailbox. One of them is marked **CUDDLE COMMANDOS**  with a strip of label tape, and it's the one on the bottom. _Okay, first floor then_ , he thinks, feeling relieved.

Steve pushes the button and waits, expectantly. 

Nothing happens.

He pushes it a second time, after a full minute of polite waiting. 

Still no answer. Despite the chill, he feels like he's starting to sweat as he pushes it for a third time, and waits some more, only to get no response.

Furrowing his brow, he reaches for the door handle, only to find it's unlocked. Feeling stupid, Steve looks quickly around him to check that no one saw his dumb ass standing on the step pressing what was obviously a broken door buzzer for five minutes. Thankfully, there's no one else around. Coast was clear. Walking into the entryway, he sees there's a set of stairs leading up, and another leading down. _First floor, right._

He walks down the stairs, and knocks firmly on the door at the bottom. No one answers it, but he can hear the muffled sound of someone singing behind it, loudly and off-key. _Clint, probably_ , he grins to himself, and tries the doorknob, which turns easily in his hand. Maybe Lucky is there, and maybe he can pet him again.

Opening the door, he steps over the threshold ready to greet Natasha or Clint, and that's when he realizes he's made a terrible mistake. 

" _WHEN YOU'RE READY COME AND GET IT! NA NA NA NA, NA NA NA NA! WHEN YOU'RE RE-A-A-A-DY! WHEN YOU'RE REA-A-A-A-ADY-ADY!_ " His back is to the door, so he can't see Steve's jaw hit the floor at the sight of him. He is hypnotized, or paralyzed, or maybe both.

Bucky is singing - and dancing - along with what is obviously a Selena Gomez song at the sink in the kitchen, washing dishes. His hips are swaying sinuously with the beat, and when Steve manages to pull his gaze away from how good his ass looks in his skinny jeans, he can see that Bucky's got his earbuds in and clearly playing at a loud volume. Every time Bucky sings the "come and get it" part he puts out both his hands, making a come-hither gesture with his first two fingers before dancing some more.

At first, he thinks he can just back slowly out the door, quietly close it behind him, and then run down the street. From there, he'd take a cab to O'Hare, and from O'Hare, he'd find a plane that would take him to somewhere on the opposite side of the world, where he could quietly die of embarrassment and lust in peace.

This lovely escapist daydream is smashed to bits when Steve backs directly into the doorframe, _closing_ the door behind him with a loud slam. Bucky whirls, knife in hand, and he nearly drops into a defensive crouch until his face alights with stunned recognition.

"...Stevie?" he says, to the man who's just barged into his home like a total asshole. 

 

* * *

 

He removes his earbuds, slowly, with one hand, and with the other, puts down the knife he'd been gripping onto the counter. "Christ. 'M sorry. I wasn't expecting..." Bucky scrubs his right hand over his face briefly, before opening his eyes and looking straight at Steve curiously, an embarrassed little smile on his face. "I mean...what are you even _doing_ here?"

Steve sucks in a breath, not sure if he's going to answer or maybe scream instead. Before he can do either, a large golden torpedo races at him from the back of the apartment, barking happily. Steve is knocked to the ground with a whump, his back landing against the door. Lucky licks his face and whines, tail wagging furiously, his paws on either side of Steve's shoulders.

"Dog really likes you," Clint observes mildly as he strolls into the room. "Usually he saves that kind of enthusiasm for the pizza delivery guy." He looks critically at Steve, sitting helplessly underneath seventy pounds of Lucky, who's now nuzzling Steve's head lovingly with his own. "Unless... _did_ you bring a pizza?"

"N - no," Steve stutters out. His stomach takes that as a cue to rumble _embarrassingly_ loudly, reminding him that he hadn't really eaten anything all day.

"Well, it sounds like you _need_ one," he opines cheerfully, taking out his phone from his pocket. "We were just gonna get dinner anyhow, so..." He shrugs with one shoulder and starts pushing buttons on his phone.

Gently pushing Lucky off of him, Steve stands up, trying to regain what's left of his utterly shredded dignity. "Oh - no, I just was..I didn't realize you _lived_ here, I just wanted to drop off - is Natasha around?"

Bucky looks at him, genuinely surprised. "Nat? No, she's out with a client tonight, has been since three. She's got appointments till eleven." He dries his hands off roughly with a dishtowel. "Besides, she lives upstairs. What were you dropping off?" His eyes narrow, making Steve's breath catch in his chest.

"Um," Steve says eloquently. He can't look at Bucky anymore, and slides his gaze away to the worn brown rug on the hardwood floor.

Clint interrupts, nodding with a jut of his chin towards Steve as he holds the phone to his ear. "You. Brooklyn. Ever had Chicago-style deep dish?"

Steve shakes his head. "Can't say that I have."

"You've been here a year and you ain't had Chicago-style pizza? Oh ho, are you in for a treat." He grins, then turns his attention to the phone. "Yeah. One medium...no. Wait. Large, deep dish. Special, please." He turns to Steve, Stage-whispering, "Sausage, mushroom, green peppers, onions. That okay?"

"I really should -" Steve tries, reaching his hand back and resting it on the doorknob, ready to bolt.

Clint ignores him, speaking into the phone again. "Yeah, that's fine. And -" he turns back to Steve. "You look like the kinda dude that eats salad. You want a salad?"

"...No," he says, turning the doorknob slowly. Lucky barks, winding himself around Steve's legs. The dog gently pushes his head at the back of his knees, moving him away from the door.

"Yeah, throw in an antipasto salad. Delivery, please. Barton." Clint gives him the address, and then hangs up the phone. "Okay, it'll be here in about forty minutes. C'mon in, make yourself at home," he gestures towards the living room. "We were also gonna catch up on the episodes of Dog Cops that I DVR'ed. Just throw your coat on the hook by the door. Feel free to take your shoes off."

Steve sighs, reaching down to ruffle Lucky's fur. He glances over towards Bucky, who's busied himself getting out plates and flatware. It's weird, this whole thing is weird. He just barges into their apartment unannounced because he thought it was Natasha's, almost gets stabbed upon surprising one of the occupants (who hates him, probably), and then is rather forcibly invited to stay for dinner by the other occupant (who apparently doesn't hate him). Okay. Sure. He can deal with this. He'll eat a piece of pizza and then leave. No problem.

Reluctantly, he peels off his jacket, and kicks off his shoes. Walking into the living room, Lucky trailing at his heels, he gives in. "What episode are you on?" he asks Clint. "I missed last week's."

 

* * *

 

Bucky had taken a seat, silently, on one of the oversize armchairs at the end of the room, focused intently on the show, for which Steve was grateful. He doesn't think he could have handled it if Bucky had decided to sit near him. Clint took up a spot on the floor, stretched out, his head resting on a pillow he'd grabbed off the couch. Both of them had made a deliberate point to put their distance between Steve and themselves, and he's not sure if he appreciates it or feels resentful of it.

It would have been nice to sit curled against Bucky's body, watching the show, sharing their warmth. Tipping his head up to nuzzle into his neck. Twining their fingers together, Bucky gently stroking his thumb against the palm of Steve's hand. Surreptitiously, he looks out of the corner of his eyes at Bucky, whose gaze was still locked firmly on the television screen, a little smile on his face as he watches. Yeah, no. He'd fucked up any hopes of any of that ever happening again beyond any hope of recovery. Bucky would never, ever touch him again. Nobody would.

Soon enough, the pizza arrives, and Lucky bolts up from the couch where he's been cuddling with Steve. He has a treat for Lucky, which Steve finds incredibly amusing and kind of adorable. "Keeps him from getting knocked over," Clint explains as he walks into the room with a large pizza box. 

" _Everybody_ loves that dog," Bucky complains pleasantly.

"Everybody _should_. He's a good dog," Steve shrugs.

Clint puts the pizza on the kitchen table and waves them both over. "All right, Brooklyn, since you ain't had this before, you're gettin' first slice." He places what looks like for all the world an entire wedge of melted cheese topped with tomato sauce on a plate in front of him. It has to be about three inches high.

Steve has no idea how to eat it. "I have no idea how to eat that," he says intelligently. Pizza was something that you picked up with your hands, folded in half, and put into your mouth. This, though...

Chuckling, Bucky hands him flatware and a napkin. "You gotta knife-and-fork it," he explains, as Clint hands him his own plate. Dutifully, Steve cuts himself a piece, and shoves it in his mouth. It is...actually amazing.

The three of them tuck into the pizza (and the salad, which is actually pretty delicious in its own right, Steve has to admit) and for awhile there's nothing but happy chewing. Clint slips Lucky his own piece under the table, and his tail beats against Steve's leg as it wags with pure joy.

"Okay, now that you've had two pieces, we can be honest with you," Clint says, as Steve pushes his plate away with a groan, pleasantly full. "Nobody really eats this kind of pizza here. I mean, we _do_ , but like, if it's a Tuesday night and we wanna order a pizza, it's a _regular_ pizza, unless we have expats in town, or newbies who need to experience this. We don't eat this usually. It's special-occasion food."

Wiping his lips with a napkin, Steve snorts with amusement, "I should hope not. I mean, thank you, it's _good_ , but it's...a bit much." He notices that everyone seems to be done eating, even Lucky, and an uneasy silence descends upon the three of them, Steve deliberately _not_ looking at Bucky, and Clint looking at both of them with an unreadable expression. 

After a beat, Clint stands abruptly, wiping his hands on a napkin. "Well. Look at the time. It's almost eight. I gotta get Lucky to his appointment, he's got two different hour-long missions tonight, and then we're going on a mission extraction to pick up Nat at eleven. Steve, it was good to see you again. Don't be a stranger." He winks at Steve, and strides across the room, grabbing his coat and whistling to Lucky, who trails at his heels happily. He turns and watches as Clint clips Lucky's leash to his collar, shrugs into his jacket and zips it up, and they head out the door together, closing it softly behind them.

Behind him, Bucky clears his throat gently, and Steve jumps.

"So. What was it you were dropping off for Natasha?" Bucky inquires gently, and he's got no choice. He turns back to look at Bucky, whose head is tilted inquisitively. He doesn't look angry, or disgusted, not yet, anyways. Steve's just waiting for that other shoe to drop.

"Uh. The, um. The payment? For last night? You kinda...forgot it." Bucky blinks, but before he can say anything, Steve babbles on, getting more nervous by the second. "And I mean, that's okay, I _completely_ understand why, and I didn't mean to just barge in here, I thought this was an office, I told Natasha I'd drop it off, but I thought she was supposed to be here, I didn't know this was _your house_ , and then Clint sort of just...ordered pizza? And I...I know you really don't want me here and I'll just...be going, now."

Steve stands, awkwardly, not able to even look him in the eye anymore. "Can you at least give the cash to Natasha?" He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, and as he does, Bucky stands up too. "Hold on. Wait. She didn't tell you?"

He pulls the wad of cash from his wallet, putting it on the table. "Tell me what?"

"It was paid for. Oh god, she did this on _purpose_ ," Bucky groans, a look of dismay washing over his face.

Steve looks at him, puzzled. "What?"

Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. "I...I took care of it. I just. Look, you gotta know something -"

"Don't say it," Steve cuts him off, bristling. He doesn't want Bucky's charity because he feels _sorry_ for him, that was even _worse_ than him feeling disgusted by him. "I _know_. You're completely entitled to your feelings."

Now it's Bucky's turn to look confused. "Well, that's...good..."

"Like I said, I _understand_. And, I mean...I had hoped..." He closes his eyes for a second, and then looks up at the ceiling, trying to ground himself, trying to look at anything but Bucky. "I had hoped we could at least be friends. But if you don't want that, after...after everything, I get it. I get why you backed out. But I don't want you to think of me like that. I really, really don't."

"Oh." He says it so softly, so pained, that Steve reflexively looks in his direction. Bucky looks...crushed. "I. Steve. I'm sorry. I thought you..."

Cutting him off, he says angrily, "I don't want your pity, Buck. I can get by just fine on my own." And it was true. He could. He'd been doing it this long, right?

"Stevie. You...you don't have to." Bucky reaches out, and then drops his hand to his side quickly, as if remembering that touching Steve might turn into a gibbering, weeping mess again. Steve opens his mouth to speak, interrupt him again, he doesn't want to hear any of Bucky's excuses or attempts to make him feel better, but Bucky won't have it.

"Stop, for a minute, and lemme _talk_ , goddamn it," he huffs with a little frustrated breath. "Just - just lemme talk, lemme finish, and then you can go, if you wanna." He sits down at the table, runs both his hands through his hair. "Last night was...Stevie, it was incredible. I was happy just bein' there, with you, but then..."

"Then I made a total ass out of myself," Steve says flatly.

" _Quit_ it, willya? 'M tryin' to _tell_ you somethin'." Bucky glares at him reproachfully. "And you didn't make an ass out of yourself, stop thinkin' that. You _trusted_ me enough to wanna touch me, even though it was hard for you, I _know_ it was hard for you, I _get_ it. I didn't care that you cried. You didn't do anything wrong, or stupid, or embarrassing. You finally felt safe enough, with me, to do that, and I was so happy. I coulda stayed there all night, holdin' you, and I almost damn near did. Do you know how difficult it was for me, to leave you like that? I fell for you the moment I laid eyes on you, and I realized last night, watching you sleep in my arms like a little kid that this was...the way I felt about you was really unprofessional."

Bucky bites his lip, and looks at the table, tracing the whorls in the wood with a finger. "So I didn't take your money. It was supposed to be a gift. Was gonna tell you I'd do that with you, for free, for forever, if you wanted. I was gonna call you, tonight, to ask you on a date. I didn't wanna fuck it up, Stevie, but I guess I did. I'm real bad at this kinda thing. I didn't realize you weren't into guys, or at least, not into me." He lets out a shuddery sigh. "So. What I'm tryin' to say is, I'm sorry. I owe you an apology."

"Oh for -" Steve literally facepalms. "For fuck's sake, Bucky."

Bucky looks over at him ruefully. "Yeah, I know."

"This is a mess. We're a mess. This is so _stupid_." Steve presses his lips together, and makes a decision. "Stand up," he orders.

Uncertainly, Bucky does, on guard. "Uh, why -" he starts, as Steve closes the distance between them in two quick strides.

"So that it's easier for me to -" Steve doesn't finish the sentence, and shows him instead.

 

* * *

 

When he kisses him he can't stop thinking about what to do with his body, where are his _hands_ supposed to go, _oh my god_ , and Bucky smiles into the kiss and he wants to reflexively take a step back because he's _so close to him_ all of a sudden, and now Bucky's hands are on his waist and what the fuck, what the _fuck_ is he supposed to do with his hands, so he keeps them at his sides, like some kind of asshole. He doesn't touch back. He chuckles nervously in the back of his throat, smiles, _normal_ people smile, and he _likes_ it, likes the kissing - Bucky's lips are _so soft_ \- but he's panicked, now, panicking at the proximity and the warmth and the nearness of him.

Bucky's hands go up, and he murmurs into Steve's mouth, "Can I - is this okay?" and he's cupping the back of Steve's neck with one hand, feather-light, the other hand on his cheek, gentle, so gentle, like he's afraid he might break him. Letting him know he's not trying to clutch at him, pull him in, that he can break away at any time and it would be okay. His whole body relaxes with the realization.

Steve just hums an assent against his lips and then parts them, slowly, to let his tongue lick into his mouth. Bucky tastes somewhat like the pizza they'd had for dinner and he _does not_ _care_ , it might just be the best thing in the entire world as far as Steve is concerned. Bucky's tongue rolls against his, softly, and that's all it takes. He is instantly, tremendously, painfully hard. Without realizing it, his hands have come to rest hesitantly on Bucky's waist, his fingers tangling loosely in his soft t-shirt.

They kiss like that for some small eternity, each learning what the other likes, unhurried and sweet. Bucky nips at his lower lip with his teeth and he gasps, realizing he'd been holding his breath, and he's shaking again, but this time it's not from abject terror.

"Okay, okay, okay," he pulls away a little, "okay, stop, stop stop stop, just for a second," Steve breathes, resting his forehead against Bucky's.

"'M sorry, sorry, I -" Bucky makes to pull back, detach himself completely, but Steve tightens his grip in his shirt.

"No, don't, I just," Steve feels his face light up with a blush so warm he thinks he might glow in the dark. "Was gonna come in my pants like a fuckin' teenager if we don't slow down for a sec." He chuckles, self-conscious.

Bucky exhales with relief. "Thank god, I thought it was just me," he murmurs, which makes them both laugh.

They stand there, just holding one another, for a full minute before starting to kiss again. This time, Steve melts into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I kind of lied a little at the end of the last update. NEXT chapter is gonna be the explicit part. This one got...way longer than I expected.
> 
> Also can you tell how much I hate Wrigleyville? (hint: a lot) 
> 
> It's true about the pizza. Only tourists and expats eat the deep-dish pizza here.
> 
> As ever, thank you ALL for reading, and for all your kind comments on this work both here and on Tumblr! Feel free to join me over there for more Stucky feels.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are...the final chapter! ARE YOU EXCITED?!?! I'm excited!!!!

Steve lies in bed that night, looking up at the ceiling in contemplation. He can't sleep. His whole body is humming, his brain moving at a million miles an hour. He'd gone home that night with a dopey grin on his face and a swagger in his step, and a nearly uncontrollable desire to just start screaming into his hands at random intervals.

He'd _kissed_ him, he'd kissed _Bucky_ , and it had been the best thing in the world. He had _touched_ him, and he was maybe gonna touch him _again_ , maybe _kiss_ him again, maybe even...the thought of _more_ almost makes him want to yell out of pure excitement.

He shifts restlessly in his bed, unable to keep still just thinking about it. When Bucky had kissed him goodbye, laughing, his blue eyes sparkling, they'd set up a date for the following night. A real, honest-to-god _date_ , and suddenly a thought strikes him.

What if he wanted _more_ after the date? His heart lurches in his chest, his stomach flips. _Yes but no but yes_.

It was one thing to imagine it and fantasize about it, but it is terrifying to contemplate the fantasy actually becoming a _reality_. Frightening to think of those hands on him, touching him everywhere, learning all his secrets.

Steve thinks of how he shook so violently at just the simple act of being held close. How he'd let out a low moan at the simple feeling of Bucky's hand rubbing slow and gentle circles between his shoulder blades. He shudders at the recollection, replaying it over and over in his head. Remembering the softness of Bucky's lips, the gentle teasing of his tongue licking into his mouth, how good he'd smelled, the way his eyes had gone glassy and dark when he'd pulled away, panting lightly...it's everything he wants, and it scares the hell out of him.

 _How do normal people handle this?_ he wonders. He feels like he's going to vibrate out of his skin just considering the possibility. He’s terrified that if he asks Bucky to take it slow, he’ll get frustrated and just...walk away, not want to wait around for him to thaw out from the ice surrounding him. 

He tosses and turns all night, by turns excited and hopeful, and distressed and anxious.

 

* * *

 

"You don't gotta be nervous, you know. It's just chicken." Bucky's smiling at him from across the table, setting the tray between the two of them. "Promise you it's good. Trust me on this," he winks, and reaches for a piece. They're at Crisp, a Korean-American fusion fried chicken place over on Broadway. Bucky was adamant that that was where he was going to take them for dinner on their date after finding out that Steve had never been.

Inside, it's small, and somewhat crowded. Instead of regular small tables there's three large wooden picnic benches set parallel to one another, making each table a communal meal. Different types of sauce are in squeeze bottles on the table, along with big rolls of brown paper towel. Everyone's happy and chatting away with one another, enjoying their meal. It's actually kind of home-y. 

Pouring some extra soy-ginger sauce over his portion of fried chicken, Bucky continues, "So. Figure after this, we'll go down the street to the Landmark, catch a movie. Nothin' big," he shrugs affably as he deftly spoons a portion of the beef bulgogi bowl onto his plate. There's enough food between the two of them to feed a small army and it smells like Heaven. Steve kind of loves it.

He pushes the bowl across to Steve, one eyebrow raised in invitation. "C'mon, tuck in, pal. Movie starts in an hour and I don't wanna miss the previews." 

Grinning, Steve takes the bowl from him. "Yeah, yeah. I have a feeling we won't need that entire hour, the rate you're going. Y'wanna be careful when you eat that chicken? Think it still has bones in it."

Bucky smirks. "Habit. Had to eat fast when I was in the service, have to eat fast now if I don't want the dog or Clint to steal my damn food." At that, Steve snorts a little - he can picture it, Lucky especially - and starts in on the meal. It's actually amazing, but not as amazing as watching Bucky enjoy it. He thinks back to the apple bread, and can't help but laugh.

"What?" Bucky asks, his mouth sticky with soy-ginger sauce, hand reaching out for a drumstick. He looks messy and beautiful all at once. Steve wants to lick the sticky-sweet taste of the sauce off his lips, and blushes fiercely at realizing it.

"Nothin'," Steve replies. He can't seem to wipe the goofy grin off his face. There are people eating their dinner all around them but as far as he's concerned the restaurant might as well be empty, just the two of them. "This is...it's great, is all."

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, they're walking down the darkened street to the theater side by side, close but not touching, in companionable silence. In front of them a few paces, a couple is walking, the man's arm slung over the woman's shoulders. They're laughing about something together. She tilts her head up and pecks him on the cheek without missing a step, and he moves his hand from her shoulder down to meet her hand, twining their fingers together. They swing their joined hands happily as they go down the street, chatting away.

Watching them makes Steve's chest burn. He wonders if Bucky is watching them, too, weighing the easy affection between that couple against the awkward, skittish person he's here with instead. Reconsidering his life choices. Bucky could probably have a million girls - a million _guys_ , for that matter - and he chose to go out tonight with the one person that couldn't give him the kind of constant physical affection he so rightly deserved.

"You're doing that thing," Bucky notes cheerfully.

Shaken out of his reverie, Steve jerks back to the present, looking over towards him. "Huh?"

"When you're thinking about something. You make this face." Bucky makes an exaggerated, contemplative pout.

Stung, Steve replies, "Don't make fun of me, Buck."

"I ain't. Ok, well, maybe a _little_ , I was," he amends. "Sorry." When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, apologetic. "I've spent a lot of time watching your face, is all. You okay? If you don't want to - I mean, if you changed your mind, about this...no harm, no foul, we can go." He jams his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Steve sighs. "I want to be here. Honestly. I just -" He chews his lip for a second, thinking. "You deserve better than this," he blurts out.

Bucky shakes his head, and smiles at him ruefully. "Stevie. This ain't a pity date. I'm here because I wanna be, because I _like_ you. _That_ ," he nods his head meaningfully towards the affectionate couple in front of them, " _that_ ain't what I want. This," he nods his head back towards Steve, " _this_ is what I want. _Who_ I want. You don't get to tell me what I want, understand?" His tone is gentle, yet firm, brooking no argument.

Steve begins to huff out the beginning of a counterargument anyways, can't help himself, but Bucky stops him. "Nah, nah, none of that. And yeah, _maybe_ I have my hands in my pockets 'cause being honest, all I wanna do sometimes is put 'em on you, all _over_ you," his face lights up with a rueful grin at that admission, "but I ain't gonna, 'cause that's not what you want, least not right now. I told you, right from the start, I ain't gonna do anything with you that you weren't comfortable with, and I meant what I said. 'M happy to just be around you, doll. And if that's all you ever want, well. Then that's what I want, too." 

It feels like someone has knocked all the air out of Steve's lungs, like he's been punched in the stomach. His skin flushes hot and then cold with both relief and embarrassment in equal measure. Bucky _understands_.

"It's not that I don't... _want_  that. I do...want. It just. Takes me awhile," he explains weakly. He glances back over to the couple, running hand-in-hand across the street to beat the light, like a couple of kids. "The kissing, though. The other night. I liked that," and he dares an apologetic half-smile.

"I know, Stevie. I _know_. I did too," Bucky intones warmly, and he's looking at him so affectionately Steve can feel a blush heating his face. Bucky pauses for a beat, thinking. "Tell you what, you wanna touch me, you go on and do it. And if I ever, _ever_ touch you in a way that you ain't ready for, or that you don't want, you have to let me know right away. I ain't ever gonna get mad at you for it, it ain't ever gonna make me like you any less for it, I swear to you. But you gotta tell me, and I'll do the same. Deal?"

Steve chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, examining the idea carefully in his head. It didn't sound like Bucky was making fun of him, or treating him like a child. It sounded reasonable. It sounded _safe_. Exhaling a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, he replies softly, "Yeah, all right. Deal."

 

* * *

 

Halfway through the movie, Steve feels comfortable enough to rest his head, gently and tentatively, on Bucky's shoulder. Bucky looks down at him for a few seconds, and just when Steve thinks that maybe he should pull away - maybe this was too much, maybe the weight of his head was making Bucky uncomfortable, Bucky fakes a loud, obnoxious yawn and stretch and shifts so that his arm is wrapped loosely around Steve's shoulders.

" _Really?_ " Steve whispers to him, amused but pleased. "That old chestnut?"

He can feel rather than see Bucky's lazy shrug as he leans towards him, pressing a kiss to his temple. "If it ain't broke, Stevie-doll..." His lips ghost over his skin so lightly it makes him shiver.

Steve turns his head to muffle a laugh against Bucky's shoulder. The divider between the seats keeps them apart below the waist, which is fine, as far as Steve's concerned. He's content to sit with Bucky's arm loose around his shoulders.

He sits there throughout the entire movie, wrapped comfortably in Bucky's solid warmth, and hardly moves the whole time. He has no idea what the movie's about, he stopped paying attention around the time that he initiated his first, tentative physical contact with Bucky. Instead, Steve just sits there marveling at how he's not shaking or panicking, almost feeling like he _should_. But he doesn't, and that's progress, he figures.

He's grateful when he realizes that, aside from putting his arm around him, that's all he'd done. Bucky was good as his word. 

 

* * *

 

When Bucky had dropped him off at his apartment after that first date, he hadn't moved in to kiss him goodnight, didn't reach out for a hug. Much as he'd thought about it, Steve couldn't get himself to initiate that kind of touch then, didn't know if he _wanted_ to, despite the lingering memory of their kiss the night before. He just kind of stood there, stupidly, and smiled awkwardly even as he tried to get his body to move, to do _something_ , _anything_ normal. _Normal people kiss their dates goodbye, Steve. You're fucking this up. You're fucking this up so bad, he's gonna think you hate him._ He could feel his smile going tight as panic started to well up in his chest.

As if he'd read his mind, Bucky shrugged and smiled. "Told you it's okay, Stevie. I had a good time tonight. Wouldn't mind doing it again sometime."

Nervously, Steve had huffed out a disbelieving laugh. _This isn't a pity date_ , he'd said earlier, but it was still a little difficult for him to trust that to be the case, especially now, when he was at such a loss as to what to do. "Yeah? I mean. Yeah. I did too. Had a good time. Maybe...maybe we can do it again. I'd...I'd like that," he'd managed to stutter out, before abruptly exiting the car. "So, uh, bye."

Once he'd gotten into his brownstone and closed the door behind him he'd been torn between exhilaration and self-loathing. The simple memory of Bucky's warm hand in his, their fingers twined together, was enough to make him break into an uncomfortable sweat. But god. Normal people invited their dates in, didn't they, after a successful date?

It struck him that he'd just sort of darted out of the car like he couldn't wait to get away from Bucky, when really, he'd just been overwhelmed by having such a good night out with someone he really liked and had, for a little while, been comfortable enough to touch. He _could_ have invited him in. Bucky could be sitting on the couch right now, curled next to him, or lying his head on his shoulder, or sitting in his lap, pressing kisses to the side of his neck... _fuck_.

Steve didn't get much sleep _that_ night, either.

 

* * *

 

On this date, their destination for the evening had been a surprise. _"It's a double date. You, me, Sam, Nat. Dress nice"_ , Bucky had told him beforehand on the phone the night before. 

"C'mon, doll, we're goin' out dancin'," he had said, smirking, when he picked Steve up at eight, Sam and Natasha holding hands in the back seat of the car. Bucky looked sinfully gorgeous in a white button-down, black vest and tie, and a pair of nice jeans.

They'd spent that Thursday evening at the Green Mill, listening to Alan Gresik's Swing Shift Orchestra - Steve was enthralled. How had he never known this place existed? An _actual orchestra_ playing _actual swing music_ in an _actual jazz club_. It was like being transported back in time.

At first, he'd been intimidated as hell. Bucky, unbeknownst to him until tonight, was quite the dancer, and he'd spent the evening trying to show Steve how to dance with...well, Steve thought it'd be generous to say that it was _mild_ success. Steve's nervousness didn't help with that much, or the relative unfamiliarity of both the songs and the dance steps. Basically, he felt like he was an utter trainwreck on the dance floor, for the most part.

However, as the evening went on, it had seemed easier trying to dance after a couple of drinks. Or maybe that was because after a couple of Manhattans he cared less about missing the steps, the crush of other dancing couples around them, or stepping on Bucky's toes. A couple of the faster numbers, he'd insisted on sitting out, and Bucky had danced with Natasha instead - they'd taken classes together, Sam explained over the horns and the drums, grinning widely, his eyes never leaving Natasha. Steve had just watched, fascinated, as Bucky swung her around almost effortlessly, the both of them flushed and laughing. Natasha and Bucky made stunning dance partners.

But he always, always, always came back for Steve, and Natasha back for Sam, when a slower number started playing. As the two of them moved around the room together, (Steve vaguely understanding all the while that he was spectacularly fucking up either a foxtrot or a waltz, he couldn't remember), he found he couldn't take his eyes off of Bucky.

He was absolutely _distracting_ up close _._  The way the vest hugged the slim lines of his torso, the way he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows as the temperature inside rose and the dancing had picked up to a faster pace. He'd thought Bucky's tie was black, with what looked like dots on it, but upon closer inspection were tiny little red-and-silver stars. He looked mouthwatering. Not for the first time, he wondered what Bucky looked like underneath the outfit.

Right then and there, Steve made up his mind that tonight, he just might try and find out. Since he and Bucky had made their deal that Steve only make a move physically when he was fully and completely comfortable with it, they had hardly done anything more intense than making out. But now, he thinks - he thinks he's ready for _more_ , everything that he had been fantasizing about for months now.

It was time, he decided, to deploy his secret weapon. One he'd had handy since this morning, actually, waiting in the icebox.

So he had leaned in, confident, and whispered into Bucky's ear, "D'you wanna get outta here, go back to my place for some pie?"

He had raised a single eyebrow, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "That slang for somethin', Stevie?"

 

* * *

 

His ma wasn't only good for apple bread.

Her lemon chess pie was out of this world, a treat most often made for summer block parties and neighbors' birthdays. He told himself that morning, whisking together the sugar, butter, lemon rind and eggs, that he didn't even know why he was doing it. He figured, as he squeezed the organic Meyer lemons, maybe it was just nostalgia. He hadn't made it in awhile, he convinced himself, as he measured the heavy cream and whisked that into the mixture. He just had a taste for it, probably.

In no time, his entire house had smelled like warm, lemony heaven, and when the pie had cooled, he'd slid it carefully onto the bottom shelf of the fridge, without a single slice cut out of it. And then he'd gone out on his date with Bucky.

Who, currently, was sitting at his kitchen table, shirtsleeves still rolled to his elbows, tie loosened and the top two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, destroying a large slice of pie.

"Oh my god," he mumbles through the very last bite ecstatically, "oh my - _mmmf_." He closes his eyes, savoring the taste of it like a fine wine for a moment, before unbuttoning his vest and shrugging out of it.

"Goddamn. Well, if you were tryin' to get me out of my clothes, Stevie, there had to be a less fattening way to go about it," he smirks, and Steve can't take it anymore, he stands up and takes him by the hand over to the living room couch with a shy grin on his face.

 

* * *

 

Bucky lets Steve take the lead, as usual, and he'd started off by kissing his face and neck everywhere _but_ his lips, chaste and sweet.

Feeling bold, he slides his hands up under Bucky's shirt, skimming over smooth skin and hard muscle. Bucky's warm, and already he feels so fucking _good_ , and the thought of Bucky touching him the same way has him breaking out in a fine sweat. He falls forward, almost, pressing his forehead to the side of Bucky's face so Bucky can't look at him, how dizzy with want he is.

He parts Bucky's lips gently with his tongue, and hearing the soft, surprised inhale he makes, Steve's determined to get him to do it again. He keeps his hands loosely around Bucky's wrists and slowly, slowly drags them up under his shirt, over his skin, without breaking the kiss. When he stops moving, just to test, Bucky's hands stop with him.

Satisfied, he resumes the slow movement up his stomach, over his ribs. Bucky lets out a breathless little huff, breaking the kiss. "Y' wanna get that off of you, or you want me to do it?" he murmurs into his cheek, peppering it with kisses in between each word. 

Steve sucks in a breath, more confident now, and decides. "I want you to take it off me. N' then I'll take yours off. So it's fair," he adds with a lopsided grin.

Bucky pulls back slightly, moving his hands to grasp the hem of Steve's shirt. "Yeah, you're all about fair," he snorts. "Ready, doll?" When Steve nods, he skims the shirt up and then over Steve's head, leaning in for another kiss before Steve starts tugging at Bucky's shirt meaningfully. 

"I should -" Bucky starts, but Steve cuts him off, kissing him deeper. "Stevie. Stevie. I should - warn you I -" he tries again, and it takes Steve's brain a second to catch up. He breaks the kiss and takes his hands off Bucky, lightning-fast. 

"Do you," he pants, alarmed, "want me to stop?"

"No. No, I mean, I just -" he breaks off, and his brow furrows, he looks away at the floor. A beat, and Steve realizes this is something he's never seen on Bucky before: self-consciousness. "It's not gonna be pretty."

"What isn't gonna be pretty? I think you're gorgeous," Steve replies, confused. He reaches for Bucky's shirt again. "Please? I swear, Buck, nothin' I see is gonna make me want you any less." Bucky's beautiful blue eyes sweep over his face, gauging it for a second. "Besides," Steve smiles at him again, "if I don't get to put your hands back on me again, I think I'm gonna die."

Bucky's eyebrows raise in surprise, and Steve grins wide at him, stupid with it. "Yeah, I know what I said. You don't even know how hard that was to admit but I'm tryin' to act cool here and keep from shaking real bad, and distract you by talking while I pull this off of you," and somehow the shirt is halfway to rucked-up before Bucky knows what's happening.

Giving in with a shy little half-smile, Bucky raises his arms over his head to make it easier for Steve, his voice a shaky whisper, "Alright, but you gotta - just don't act like it's nothing, okay? Don't pretend like it ain't there."

"Like _what_ ain't there -" Steve starts, but as the shirt clears Bucky's head and arms he sees it. His left arm, scarred pink and white, the flesh mottled. The scar stretches a good six inches, along the line of his shoulder arcing from below his collarbone, just above the armpit, and down part of the top of his bicep. "Oh," he finishes intelligently. 

Truth be told, it looks like whatever it was that had happened to him had _hurt_ and hurt like hell, but - "Buck. It doesn't...it doesn't make you any less beautiful, I swear it." Impulsively, he leans forward to kiss that scar, run his tongue along the line of it, resting his hand on Bucky's waist to pull him in closer.

Bucky shudders, then, startled, but makes no move to push Steve away.

"IED in an abandoned building," he explains hoarsely, his voice low and restrained. "I got pinned in the rubble, falling debris shattered my shoulder. Took them two days to dig me out. The explosion took out Clint's left ear. He doesn't wanna let people know, but he can barely hear out of it at all. Stubborn little shit." He exhales a shaky, whooshing breath, like he'd been holding that story in for years. Steve lies his cheek against the scars on his shoulder, listening to him talk.

"Was easier to just give me a metal replacement, the humerus was practically pulverized, they told me. Remember when I said that I have a lot of fun going through metal detectors now?" He laughs, dry and humorless. His heart is beating like a frightened rabbit's, and idly, Steve slides both his hands around to pull him into a hug, rub little circles in the small of his back, just as Bucky had done for him when he was sobbing his heart out not so long ago.

He goes quiet, then, and Steve straightens up to nuzzle at his collarbone and then move up the side of his neck. "You're right. It's not nothing. Still think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he murmurs honestly into his skin. He means it, too. The scarring didn't matter, the past didn't matter, all that mattered was Bucky, wanting him, right here and now. But the rhythm's been thrown off, and he's not sure whether or not Bucky wants him to keep going.

Finally, after a beat, he works up the nerve to tilt his head up, and press a kiss to the corner of Bucky's mouth. His stubble scratches his lips a little, but it's a pleasant sensation, which only makes Steve want to do it again. Bucky chuckles and turns his head so that he can kiss Steve full on the mouth, slowly, gently.

Steve always had thought that the idea of swooning was stupid, silly, but now he thinks he understands it a hell of a lot more than he ever did. He feels like he's falling, his chest light, all the breath knocked out of it. The way he always felt every time he kissed Bucky. Steve holds him close, kisses him deeper, licking into his mouth until they have to break away, panting. 

It's  _easier_ , he realizes, when he's the one deciding how to do the touching. When  _he's_  the one pulling someone towards him, instead of being pulled, grabbed at, manhandled. It's  _his_  decision, that way, and he has control over exactly what's being done, and where, and how. But that doesn't mean he doesn't want Bucky's hands all over him, either.

"I want. You can," he whispers shakily, forgetting his words for a moment. "You can...I want you to touch me." As he says it, he can feel the blush spread from his cheeks down his chest, and he has to look away for a moment.

"I'm gonna let you drive, okay?" he whispers against the corner of Steve's mouth. "You just take my hands, put 'em wherever you want 'em. Nothin' you don't want, Stevie-doll, that's our deal."

Bucky runs his hands up underneath Steve's, placing them flat underneath his palms. "Lemme touch you how you wanna be touched, babydoll. Show me." Gently, he guides his hands towards Steve's body, and for a moment, their hands hang in the air. Steve trembles, and then, gingerly places their twined hands, uncertainly, on either side of his hips.

At that brief and simple contact, his heart flutters and his stomach goes momentarily queasy, like he's just lurched over the first drop of a rollercoaster. He sucks in a breath -  _Jesus, we're not even undressed yet, this is going to be too much_  - but Bucky leans in for a kiss then, and  _yes_. Yes, he wants it, _yes_ , the thought of it is making his mouth water, his cock aching and hard, straining against the fly of his jeans.

"C'mon," he gasps, "bedroom."

 

* * *

 

Bucky peels off his pants and falls back on the bed, leaning back against the pillows. "C'mere, Stevie," he whispers in a low voice, and of course Steve's helpless to resist. He strips down to his boxers and climbs over him, kneeling on either side of Bucky's legs. Bucky's wearing these red boxer briefs that clearly show how hard and thick he is already. It's all Steve can do not to drool.

"You gotta show me what you want, sweetheart," Bucky sighs happily, his arms resting lax against the pillows. "Take my hands. Lemme get 'em on you." Obediently, Steve takes Bucky's hands in his own, presses them to his hips, smoothing them up and then back down his sides with a shudder. "Mmm, there you go, that's nice. God, look at you. So pretty, Stevie. I wanna kiss you, doll, can I kiss you?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Steve leans over to kiss him, and leaves Bucky's hands where they are. True to his word, he doesn't move them from where they're resting at his hips. He just gently strokes his fingertips over Steve's skin as he rolls his tongue into Steve's mouth, pulling back to nip softly at his lower lip with his teeth. The heat of his chest against Steve's sets his skin on fire, and it's only made worse when Steve grinds his hips down a little, feeling the length of Bucky's body - _and that glorious cock, oh my god_ \- pressed against him. 

Bucky's hips move in slow, langorous circles underneath his own, and it's - he has to pull back a bit, propping himself up on his elbows to look at him. Bucky's eyes have gone dark with desire, and he's smiling up at him in a way that makes Steve's heart skip a beat. It occurs to him, finally, that, _Jesus_ , that Bucky  _wants_  him, he honest-to-God  _wants_  him. "I don't know if I can - if I can do this, you're. You're so. God," Steve manages to stammer out ineffectually.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want, and if you tell me y' wanna stop, I'm gonna stop, and that's gonna be the end of it. If you even _look_ like you want me to stop, I'll stop," Bucky says firmly, rubbing his thumbs softly over Steve's hips.

"Christ," Steve exhales, "I don't want you to stop, that's the thing, I _don't_ , I want this so bad. Want _you_ so bad, Buck, it's killing me. I just gotta - I gotta," he sucks in a shuddering breath to try to calm himself, and then pushes himself up so he's straddling Bucky again. "I want this." He grabs Bucky's hands again, moves them up slow, up his abs and over his pecs. He's trying not to shake, but he's overwhelmed with it, bare skin on his skin, the slight movements of Bucky's breathing, the interested twitching of his cock that he can feel against his own. 

"All right. Then we're gonna go real slow, doll, we ain't gonna rush anything, just nice and slow and easy. Okay?" Bucky promises, rubbing his thumbs very slightly over Steve's nipples, which almost instantly harden into little points at his touch. Steve can't help it, he moans out loud before he even knows he's doing it. "You like that, huh? What else do you like, hmm? Y' wanna show me?" Bucky grins wickedly, continuing to tease his nipples in slow circles. 

"Tell me what you want, baby," Bucky breathes. Steve clutches at his hands, and in response, Bucky cups his pecs and squeezes them briefly.

"Bucky," he sighs. "I want. I want you to -" Steve stops, too embarrassed to say it out loud, and he thinks he can feel how red he's getting just thinking of it. "I want you to -" he starts again, and then shakes his head briefly, irritated with himself. He takes his left hand off of Bucky's and reaches for him, pulling him up to a sitting position, so now he's straddled across Bucky's lap. He cups the back of Bucky's head and arches his back slightly, pulling Bucky towards his chest. 

He chuckles, getting the hint, and leans in to flick his tongue once, delicately, over Steve's right nipple. He closes his lips around it and suckles, gently, his tongue laving over the sensitive nub, his fingers still teasing at the other one. Steve groans, loud, and closes his eyes. He's so incredibly hard, so turned on, he feels like he could come from just this. He squirms, a bit, embarrassed at how hypersensitive he is. But it's been so long, _so long_ , since anyone's touched him like this. Since he liked it, since he wanted _more_. Bucky switches to suck on the other nipple, kissing and licking and softly nipping at it.

The hard line of Bucky's cock keeps brushing up against his, making him pant. His hips roll, grinding against Steve's in rhythmic waves. Feeling emboldened, he moves Bucky's hand down, down, down, over his ribcage, skating over his abs, and finally, over the hard outline of his cock, making them both groan. Bucky cups it through his boxers, stroking him firmly but gently, just enough to drive Steve crazy.

He can feel how hard he is, how hot his skin is, and when he dares to open his eyes and actually _sees_ Bucky, intently watching their twined hands stroking over Steve's dick, it almost pushes him over the edge. Steve lets out a shaky moan and has to close his eyes again, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from going off in his shorts like a fifteen-year-old. A few more moments of this, pleasure  turning his head fuzzy with desire, Steve thinks without speaking.

"Goddamn, Buck, you gotta... _ah_...you gotta get _in_ me, I want, I want, _ngh_ , I want you to fuck me," he blurts out. 

Bucky lifts his head up to look at him, surprise showing in his blue eyes, but he's grinning. "Okay, baby, okay, whatever you want." He looks around Steve's room in the half-light coming from the streetlamps outside. "I didn't, um, bring any supplies. I don't suppose you, um...?" He lets the question hang in the air for a moment, his brow furrowed.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Honestly. I may have been single, but I'm not _dead._  Please." He reaches over to his nightstand and opens the drawer. In the process, he can't help but grind his hips down a little on Bucky's, making him gasp softly. Steve fishes out a bottle of lube and a three-pack of condoms and sets them next to Bucky's hip on the bed.

Picking up the bottle of lube, Bucky eyes it critically for a moment before flicking his eyes back up to Steve, amused. "I can't help but notice this ain't never been opened."

"All right, so _maybe_ I was a little hopeful a few weeks ago. Sue me," Steve huffs, leaning in to kiss him again.

"A few _weeks_ ago?" Bucky moans against his lips. "Christ, Stevie, you can't go _tellin'_ me things like that, you just _can't_. When I think about all the times in the past few weeks I thought about this -" he pinches at Steve's nipple again, bucking his hips up gently "- and now I find out you were thinking about it _too_? Goddamn, babydoll."

"It just takes me awhile, okay? I'm not - I'm not the kind of person that just...I mean you _saw_ me. I don't just hop into bed with people when I can hardly - _ah_ \- stand to have them hug me without wanting to crawl out of my skin." 

Remembering that fact, Bucky pulls away for a moment to study his face. "You're good with this? This ain't too much, is it?"

Steve groans, and cants his hips up into Bucky's hand. "Too _much_? No, it's not _enough_ , c'mon, I _want_ it, I want _you_ , how else do I gotta prove it to you?"

Tipping his head to kiss at Steve's neck, Bucky sighs into his skin. "You tellin' me that is a good start."

 

* * *

 

"Lie down on your back for me, Stevie-doll," Bucky whispers into the shell of his ear.

It's Steve's turn to lie back against the pillows, and he exhales, shaky, as Bucky delicately peels his boxers down his hips and off his body. His cock springs free, flushed and wet at the tip, curving up towards his belly. Bucky opens up the lube before sidling up and settling next to him, lying on his side. He pulls Steve's leg gently over his hip while ducking his head down for a kiss. Steve feels so - so very  _exposed_ , and every nerve in his body is jangling on edge, but he thinks if Bucky stops now he might die. 

Bucky hands him the lube. "Put a little on whatever hand you're most comfortable with," he instructs Steve gently, "and then some on mine." Steve blinks up at him, confused. Anticipating this, Bucky smiles and presses a kiss to his temple. "We're gonna do this together," he explains. "I wanna make this good for for you, babydoll. So goddamn good."

Obediently, Steve does as he's asked, and Bucky nods at him. "I want you to get yourself started, and while you do, I'm gonna kiss you. All right?"

"Yeah," Steve breathes, awed. "Okay." Bucky leans in to kiss him, slow and hot and filthy, and Steve melts into it for a few moments before remembering what it is he's supposed to be doing, and reaches between his legs to rub the pad of one finger around his hole.

It's been a while since he's done this, and he remembers the initial discomfort, the stretch and the burn, as he breaches the tight ring of muscle with a single finger. He whines a little into Bucky's mouth at the sensation, and in response Bucky slowly moves his hand down and over Steve's, to feel what he's doing, how he's doing it. It makes him pant, makes him sweat, moving that slick finger in and out, kissing Bucky all the while.

Steve feels like he's floating away. "More?" Bucky breaks away to speak, and he already looks absolutely wrecked, his hair hanging in his eyes, his blue eyes blown black with arousal. Steve nods, and groans shakily as Bucky carefully pushes in one finger alongside his own, their hands moving together in unison, working him open patiently. 

By the time Bucky puts another finger in him, it's almost too much for Steve - too much, and all at once, the sensation of Bucky's skin against his, Bucky's fingers inside him _alongside his own_ , and at that thought he grinds down on their twined hands and moans. Bucky rubs gently at his prostate, then, and his spine lights up with pleasure, making him gasp. He has to close his eyes, can't look at Bucky touching him or he'll - 

"God, I can't, I can't," he moans, and Bucky moves as if to pull away, but Steve shakes his head fiercely. "No, _please_ , don't stop, I - you gotta get in me, _now_ , I'm this close to -" he babbles out.

Bucky hums an assent, and with his free hand, Steve fumbles around for the pack of condoms he'd laid somewhere on the bed. His hands are shaky, his skin slick with sweat. WIth a low chuckle, Bucky gently withdraws his fingers, Steve's with them, and reaches over to pick up the packet. Steve closes his eyes again, panting, waiting, as Bucky hurriedly skims off his briefs. He tries to focus on his breathing, but can hear Bucky tear open one of the condoms and roll it on, the snap of the lube bottle opening and the sound of Bucky slicking himself up, readying himself to - 

"You ready, Stevie?" he asks, his voice rough with arousal.

"Christ, yes, please, please, _please_ ," he begs, his legs falling apart even further. As he does he can feel the blunt head of Bucky's dick nudging at his hole. He pushes in slow, slow, slow. He's only halfway inside and already Steve can feel how hard he is, how hot he is inside him. 

"Open your eyes, doll. Look at me, c'mon, baby," Bucky pleads gently, and, with effort, Steve does, blinking hazily up into Bucky's eyes. He has to close his eyes again immediately afterward. The look on his face, half-wrecked and so _intent_ on him, almost makes him come right then and there.

"I can't, I'm, I'm gonna -"

Bucky exhales a shaky breath - how Steve had _ever_ imagined that this wasn't affecting him just as much, he's not sure - and moves even slower. "You gonna come for me already?" he hums as he leans in to press a kiss to Steve's chest with a huff of amusement. "I ain't even barely inside you yet, doll." 

Steve lets out a tortured whine and _trembles_ , but tries to keep himself from moving - he's afraid if he does, it'll be all over embarassingly quickly. "Sssh, shh, c'mon. It's okay. Nice and slow and easy, like I said." He presses in, and keeps pressing in impossibly slowly, till he bottoms out and stops, covering Steve's face in soft but urgent kisses. "I can... _ah, god_...I can wait, till you're ready for me to move."

There's a moment that stretches out forever, the only sounds in the room their shallow panting. Bucky's sweating forehead is pressed to Steve's cheek, his breath hot and wet against his skin.

"When you're ready. Move me. However you want, Stevie." Dazed, Steve puts his hands on either side of Bucky's hips, and slides them down to grip his ass. He takes a deep breath, and begins to guide Bucky's thrusts, showing him how to move.

It's tentative, at first, and excruciatingly slow, making Bucky groan hotly. Steve can feel the slick slide of every inch moving within him, loosening him up, welcoming the entire length of Bucky's cock into his body. It feels so good, _so  God damned good_ , makes his head spin and his body shake with it. Bucky is _inside him_ , Jesus god. He feels like his skin is on fire, his cock pressed between them, rubbed hard and getting harder with each thrust. 

Above him, Bucky is panting, moaning. It drives him crazy, he doesn't think he can wait another second to get off. He tries to move Bucky faster, but this, Bucky resists. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. Slow down. Don't be greedy. We're gonna keep going, _ngh_ , just like this, till we both come." All Steve can do in response is let out little wrecked sobs, arching his back to take more of him in. 

"Oh, _oh_ , oh," Steve cries. He's so close, _so close_ , he can feel his nipples tighten, his balls drawing up, his cock getting harder than he felt like he'd been in years, dripping precome steadily now, pooling on his stomach. He can feel tears stinging the corners of his eyes, he's so overwhelmed with it all. 

"Come for me, Stevie. Wanna feel it, c'mon," Bucky slurs, lifting himself up a little on one arm to wrap a hand around Steve's cock, and Steve hisses and shudders at the contact. "Come for me, 'm so close, baby, you're so hot and tight and wet around me, I can't hardly stand it." He moves his hand in time with his thrusts, jerking him off firmly but slowly, hitting his prostate with every stroke.

The sensation is - it rocks through him in waves. The drag of Bucky's dick moving within him, his slick hand wrapped around him, tugging at him, his spine lit up, his back arching, every nerve ending firing, his body breaking out in goosebumps. He's moaning uncontrollably now, trembling on the edge, he's gonna, he's gonna - "You needed this, didn't you? Go on, let go for me, sweetheart," Bucky pants out, and that's it, he's tipping over the edge.

He throws his head back against the pillow, exposing his throat, as he cries out and begins to come between them, coating both of their bellies with his release. He shakes with it, sobs with it, as Bucky plants kisses all along his throat, fucking him through it and gentling him through the aftershocks. "That's it, that's right. I'm here, I've got you, you're so good, you did so good, Stevie. So good," and Steve absolutely melts into the mattress from the praise and the pleasure.

Bucky doesn't slow his thrusts, and seconds later, as Steve is lying there, boneless and floating, he hisses out Steve's name and then a long, low moan. Steve dares to peek at him from under his tearstained lashes, watching as Bucky's orgasm hits him. His face when he's coming is so gorgeous to see that Steve's softening cock twitches, spilling out another weak pulse of come. Bucky thrusts once, twice, and then stills, trembling, before nearly collapsing on top of him.

They lie there for a few moments, breathing heavily and kissing sloppily, lazily, dazed with it, before Bucky slowly pulls out, earning another shudder from Steve. He peels off the condom before dropping it into the wastebasket by the side of the bed, and turns to wrap Steve in his arms, pulling him in towards him. "'S good? You okay?" 

"Jesus god, I think you about killed me," Steve croaks out. "I am now dead. I mean, I'm not complaining. What a way to go, though."

Bucky snorts out an exhausted-sounding chuckle, and then they're quiet for a long while, cheek to cheek, luxuriating in it.

"I wanna do this again," Steve says quietly, breaking the silence. Against his cheek, he can feel Bucky grinning. 

"Y' might wanna give me a few more minutes -" he starts, amusement coloring his voice.

"I think I love you," Steve blurts out, surprising himself. He cringes instinctively. _Oh no, oh no, you were always_ so _bad at this, you have no filters in your post-sex orgasm haze, you oughtta know this by now_. "Uh, I mean," he stumbles, trying to correct himself, to will the words back into his mouth.

Laughing, Bucky kisses his forehead. He's not mad, Steve notes sluggishly, or disgusted. Oh, he's - he's smiling, that's good, Steve thinks, relieved. Bucky gently cups his cheek with one hand, and turns Steve's head so that he's looking him in the eyes when he speaks. "You were my mission, Stevie-doll. I fell in love the moment I laid eyes on you. Nothin' in the whole world for me but you."

 

* * *

 

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

"You going out on another mission for the Commandos?" Steve asks, ruffling Lucky's fur. Lucky barks happily in response, wagging his tail. His mouth is open in a big doggy grin, his tongue lolling out. "You're a _good_ dog," he says, and pats his flank. "You're gonna show Peggy the ropes tonight, yeah?"

"For her first mission, Sam's taking them both to the VA," Clint grins, leash in hand. "I don't think she'll be a problem, she completed the therapy dog training with flying colors."

"Thank you again for finding her for us. I owe you one, pal," Bucky says as he walks in from the kitchen, foil-wrapped package in hand. "But, in the meantime, here's this for ya instead." He tosses it at Clint, who catches it deftly with his free hand.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't damage the goods! Is _this_ the famous apple bread? I think it's safe to assume this isn't the lemon chess pie." Clint lifts it near his nose, sniffs it. "Oh yeah. That's gotta be it. God, it was all I heard about for a month. Blah blah blah apple bread, blah blah blah Steve is the cutest person on earth, blah blah blah."

"I wasn't _that_ bad before I moved in," Bucky grumbles, embarrassed.

Nodding sagely, he replies seriously, "Well, all right. Maybe you weren't. I dunno. I took my hearing aid out sometimes and just nodded a lot when I got tired of you flappin' your jaw about Blondie over here."

Rolling his eyes, Bucky swipes at his shoulder. "Sic 'em, Pegs," he intones, nodding at the brown greyhound/Lab mix sitting patiently by the door, holding her leash in her mouth. She tilts her head at the command, then walks over to Clint, drops the leash, and pushes her head up into his hand, nudging it with her nose and then delicately licking his fingers.

"Real vicious attack dog you got there, Barnes," Clint smirks.

Steve straightens up, giving Lucky a final scratch behind the ears. "All right, all right, you two, enough. Sam's waiting on your best agents."

Leaning down to pick up Peggy's leash, Clint winks at the two of them. "We'll be back by nine. You kids behave yourselves, now."

"Think we can manage to keep the noise down to a minimum," Bucky intones suggestively.

He closes the door of their brownstone behind Clint and both dogs, and as soon as he turns the lock Steve has him pushed up against it. "All right, you heard the man. We're on a tight schedule, Sergeant. 'M gonna need you undressed and in our bedroom in," he looks at his wrist, checking an imaginary watch, "thirty seconds."

Steve's not "cured", not really. He still doesn't like to be touched, a lot of the time, but he's learned to be more comfortable with it, especially with Bucky. Now it's almost second nature, reaching out for him, having Bucky touch him back, always gentle, always in love, never to hurt. 

Bucky kisses him, laughing, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close, and it's maybe the best sensation in the world. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG EVERYONE HAS DOGS AND THEY LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER IN A QUEER NEIGHBORHOOD ON THE NORTH SIDE HOORAY :D :D :D 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> As I wrap this up (I feel like this part is the afterword of a book or something) a few acknowledgements - 
> 
> First, thank YOU for reading and sticking with me! It's been fun, hasn't it? I know there were sometimes long delays between chapters while life was kicking my ass, and I appreciate your patience.
> 
> Second, of course, undying and eternal love for sonickitty, whose conversation with me one lonely night spawned the idea for this entire wonderful AU.
> 
> Thirdly: should you ever find yourself in Chicago, ask me for the One Caress tour. All these places are real places. Come hungry. It's mostly restaurants, though I know exactly which brownstone in Andersonville Steve (and now Bucky and Peggy) live in. Bucky and the Commandos' three-flat, sadly, exists now only in my memory, as it has been torn down and replaced with more modern condos and an insurance agency (and the wonderful Irish pub that used to be across the street is now gone as well). 
> 
> Lastly, but not least: I would happily add an apple bread and lemon chess pie recipe coda by popular request. I cannot _GUARANTEE_ that they will snag you the attractive, kind, gentle partner who you've been crushing on, but...at least you will not be hungry?
> 
> If you are so inclined, come visit me on [tumblr](http://fuck-me-barnes.tumblr.com) and chat me up. Who knows, you might help spawn the next AU idea, even!


	6. Recipe Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand: here are the recipes for Sarah Rogers' apple bread, lemon chess pie, and Steve's chocolate chip cookies. 
> 
> Enjoy!

##  **SARAH ROGERS' APPLE BREAD**

_Please note that this recipe makes TWO loaves of apple bread, so if you aren’t feeding a small army or a hungry Bucky and Lucky, you can easily halve the recipe and it will work just fine. For my part, I prefer not to, and like Steve, usually give the second loaf to someone I have an unspeakable crush on. I mean, a friend. Just a friend. Don’t make it weird. Do you like bread? Here, have this bread. [shoves a loaf of foil-wrapped bread at you, leaves]_

##  **INGREDIENTS:**

  * 4 cups “baking” apples, peeled, cored, and chopped (about 3-4 apples. I like to use Honeycrisp kind)
  * 4 large eggs
  * 1 cup canola oil
  * 2 tsp vanilla extract
  * 2 tsp baking soda
  * 2 tsp salt
  * 2 tsp cinnamon
  * 3 cups all-purpose flour
  * 2 cups sugar



 

##  **TOPPING** :

  * ¾ cup all-purpose flour
  * ¼ cup sugar
  * 2 tsp cinnamon
  * 1 stick butter, softened



  
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease two standard loaf pans and set aside. Peel, core, and slice the apples, cutting them into good-sized chunks (about 1"). This will keep your hands busy, so that you absolutely do NOT think about your crush and get nervous. 

In a large bowl, beat the eggs until fluffy. Add the oil and beat until combined. Add the vanilla extract, baking soda, salt and cinnamon and beat until thoroughly mixed. Focus, stop thinking about your crush, there’s a lot going on here and you have to pay attention and definitely  _not_  consider how beautiful their eyes are. Next, add the flour and sugar and mix on low to blend. Turn the mixer to high and beat until batter is smooth. 

At this point the batter will be VERY thick. Fold in the chopped apples (this part you will have to do by hand, don’t use the mixer). Divide the mixture between two pans. Suppress a scream when you picture your crush’s lips taking a bite of this bread.  
  
To prepare the topping, combine all topping ingredients in a small bowl and cut together with a fork or pastry cutter until all ingredients are moist and crumbly. Just smash all these things together like you’re smashing your feelings for your crush. You can even use your hands for this, if you want.   
  
Divide topping mixture in half, sprinkle over each loaf of bread. Bake the loaves together in the oven for one hour or until bread is cooked through. This will make your house smell absolutely amazing, by the way. Let cool for about five minutes before removing bread from pans. Cool on cooling racks. 

This bread freezes well, much like Steve.

 

* * *

 

 

##  **SARAH ROGERS' LEMON CHESS PIE**

_I bake this pie all the time. Like Steve, I bake it almost unconsciously. I certainly never use it as an enticement. It has never made someone fall helplessly in love with me. Of course not. You can absolutely use a premade pie crust for this, instead of the pie dough (recipe below) if it seems too daunting. Your crush will probably never know the difference._

  * Zest of 1 lemon
  * 1 2/3 cups cups of granulated sugar
  * 1 tablespoon stone-ground yellow cornmeal
  * 1 tablespoon flour
  * 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
  * 5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
  * 5 Large eggs
  * 2/3 cup heavy whipping cream
  * 7 tablespoons fresh lemon juice (from about 3 large lemons)
  * 3 tablespoons fresh orange juice
  * 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract



  
Preheat the oven to 325°F. Tell yourself that there's no particular reason for making this, you just felt like it. It's fine.

Put on some music. I recommend Parov Stelar or Caravan Palace. This pie goes great with electroswing.  
  
In a large bowl, stir together the lemon zest, sugar, cornmeal, flour, and salt.

Use a wooden spoon or spatula to stir in the melted butter, then the eggs one at a time, stirring well after each addition. If you wanna dance a little while you're doing it, that's okay. No one's looking. 

Mix briskly until the filling is thick and light colored. Stir in the heavy cream, followed by the lemon juice, orange juice, and vanilla extract.

Strain the filling through a fine-mesh sieve directly into the pie shell, or strain it into a separate bowl and then pour it into the shell. (This step is not strictly required, unless you think you might have gotten some eggshell in there somehow, or something. Ma always used to do it, though.)  

Bake on the middle rack of the oven for 40 to 50 minutes, rotating 180 degrees when the edges start to set, 30 to 35 minutes through baking.

The pie is finished when the edges are set and puffed slightly and the center is no longer liquid but still wobbles slightly; it should be lightly golden on top. Be careful not to overbake or the custard can separate; the filling will continue to cook and set as it cools. (If the custard _does_ separate, the pie will still taste delicious.)

Allow to cool completely on a wire rack, 3 to 4 hours. This should give you plenty of time to get ready for your date and put the pie in the fridge before you head out the door. This pie can actually sit, covered, at room temperature for one day, but it will last longer if you keep it in the fridge, where it can stay up to three days.

 

##  **MA'S FOOLPROOF PIE DOUGH**

  * 2 1/2 cups (12 1/2 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour
  * 1 teaspoon table salt
  * 2 tablespoons sugar
  * 12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/4-inch slices
  * 1/2 cup cold vegetable shortening, cut into 4 pieces
  * 1/4 cup cold vodka (plus one shot)
  * 1/4 cup cold water



Process 1 1/2 cups flour, salt, and sugar in food processor until combined, about 2 one-second pulses. Be grateful that you have a food processor, ma used to do this step with an old-fashioned pastry cutter. Add butter and shortening and process until the dough just starts to collect in uneven clumps, about 15 seconds (dough will resemble cottage cheese curds and there should be no uncoated flour).

Just in case, scrape the inside of the food processor bowl with a rubber spatula and redistribute the dough evenly around the processor blade. Add the remaining cup of flour and pulse until mixture is evenly distributed around bowl and the mass of dough has been broken up, about 4 to 6 quick pulses. Empty the dough mixture into a medium bowl.

Do the shot of vodka. It's for good luck. Sprinkle the remaining 1/4 cup vodka and water over the dough mixture. With rubber spatula, use folding motion to mix, pressing down on dough until dough is slightly tacky and sticks together. Divide the dough into two even balls and flatten each into 4-inch disk. Wrap each in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 45 minutes or up to 2 days.

If you use this to make the lemon chess pie, roll it out to fit your pie pan, trim and flute the edges however you wish, and partially pre-bake it (about 10-15 min at 425 degrees). Make sure that you weight it down with beans or pie weights before placing it in the oven! Let the partially pre-baked crust cool before pouring in the lemon chess filling and placing it back in the oven.

 

* * *

 

 

##  **STEVE'S BLANKET FORT CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES**

_The secret of these melt-in-your-mouth cookies are the chocolate chip to dough ratio. You can use regular sized chocolate chips for these and they'll turn out just fine, of course, but if you're a perfectionist like me (and Steve) trust me on the mini chips._

  * 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
  * 1 tsp baking soda
  * 1/4 tsp salt
  * 1 cup packed brown sugar
  * 3/4 cup granulated sugar
  * 1/2 cup butter, softened to room temperature
  * 1 tsp vanilla extract
  * 2 large egg whites
  * 3/4 cup semisweet mini chocolate chips
  * Cooking spray



Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups, leveling with a knife. Combine flour, baking soda, and salt in medium sized bowl. Precision is important here. These cookies have to be perfect, he's very cute and he deserves so many delicious cookies. 

Combine sugar, brown sugar, and butter until well-blended (you can use a hand mixer for this to make it easier, on medium speed for about a minute). Add egg whites and vanilla, beat for another minute. Add the flour mixture in, about 1/3 cup at a time, mixing until well blended. Fold in chocolate chips with a spatula. Eat a couple. It's your right.

If you're using a nonstick pan or silicone baking sheets, you don't need to use the cooking spray, but if you're just using a regular pan, might as well spray it down (you'll want to do this with each fresh batch). Grab a clean tablespoon and portion out the dough into generous little balls. This will ensure that your cookies are uniform and round and all bake at the same rate. Measuring is so important! You're doing science, after all.

Bake for ten minutes or so, until they look like your desired level of "done-ness". Steve and I both like our cookies on the softer side, with slightly crispier edges, so ten minutes is about right for us. If you like them crispier, bake them longer, no judgment. Cool cookies completely on wire racks, then arrange them carefully on a plate and watch the clock till it's time for your crush to show up.

 


End file.
